Breastfeeding

So, new moms, if you’re considering breastfeeding, let me be your herald of hard truths: it’s not for the faint of heart. When it comes to a baby trying to latch on to a nipple, my best comparison would definitely be a baby bird fighting for a worm in the ground. There’s the wide-eyed determination, the tiny little mouth opening in search, and let’s not forget, the flapping—minus the feathers, but definitely with plenty of adorable chaos! With my first son, I thought I was ready. I bought all the books, read everything there was to read, interrogated experienced moms, and even sat through a lactation class. Yet, when he arrived, all those tips and tricks turned into a swirl of confusion. The lactation nurse breezed in and instructed me to hold him like a football—apparently, he’d do the rest. Well, that might have been true when she placed him on me, but when I tried, it was like he’d found a much more interesting channel on a tiny invisible TV.

Nobody warned me about the pain either. As if my boobs turning into rock-like pain sensors wasn’t enough, my uterus was staging its own protest march back to normal. After days of trying and failing, I switched to pumping—only to discover it was breastfeeding’s evil twin. Seriously, if the machine’s doing too much pulsing and not enough contracting at the wrong size, it’s like a medieval torture device. Physical intimacy moved to the back burner because, with my tender-as-porcelain bust, even imagining a breeze touching them was a ‘nope’ for me.

Then, along came my second son, the sleeping, feeding wonder child. He latched on effortlessly like it was his superpower, and suddenly milk was flowing in 6-ounce increments instead of the paltry 1-2 ounces I sweated over with my first. With him, it was all about convenience—no more panicking over bottle temperature or cleaning the million tiny pieces that come with pumping. Though I still pump once or twice a day, it’s more of a friendly check-in than a full-blown session. Nights became a snuggle fest, with him and me both blissfully half-asleep on a Boppy pillow, ignoring the world.

On the downside, my firstborn gave me major side-eye—a potent mix of jealousy and silent judgment that makes my mom guilt flare. We made it three months breastfeeding with him, while with his baby brother, we’re cruising past four. But here’s the big reveal: breastfeeding in public is not the scandal people make it out to be. Sure, there are occasional looks, but compared to the chaos of bottle feeding logistics, it’s a walk in the park with center-stage views of zero mummy meltdowns over forgotten formula. Who knew that simple, hassle-free and spontaneous wins the day?