(1 to 7 August is observed as the World Breastfeeding Week. We know that breast is best, it’s the baby’s ‘first vaccine’ – but it’s ridiculously hard for a new mother. It’s easy to force the burden of nurturing a baby on women alone, but breastfeeding is as much a mother’s responsibility as it is society’s.)
My daughter often tells me I am not “mother” material. She may be right. That is what I surmised from the frowns of the paediatricians when she was born.
I had defiantly pranced around at work, continuing my long hours and overnighters when she was getting made in the baby-making parts of my belly. She clearly did not appreciate the dizzying roller coaster, and popped out premature and very, very tiny.
Then came the big 90-day Feed or Fail Challenge.
The paediatrician said that baby must be breastfed such that she hits Survival Weight soon.
Easier dictated than lactated.
The Preterm Prima Donna refused to suckle. She seemed to have no appetite for anything other than sleep. And it was ALL my fault – said the docs, said the nurse, said the nanny, said even the dhobi who came with the nappy piles.
The baby not feeding, not gaining weight, refusing the breast was ALL MY FAULT.
If all the “real” mommies in the world could selflessly feed their babies, with psychedelic haloes droning above, why couldn’t I?