I Breastfed My Way into an Eight-Hour-A-Day Social Media Addiction

My baby thought the apple logo was his mother.

Frankly My Dear

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Photo by Paul Hanaoka on Unsplash

For the first three weeks of my son’s life, breastfeeding took two hands and a little piece of my soul.

He was a smaller-than-average baby with a veracious appetite and a lazy latch, and I survived with a mixture of pumping, comp-feeding, finger feeding and a stubborn determination I possess but rarely call upon.

It felt like I had my period for the first time all over again. At thirty-three my body had just learnt a brand-new function and it was awkward as hell. For the first few weeks I felt embarrassed, uncomfortable, inadequate and pretty much constantly exposed. People observing me breastfeed felt like being watched while I put a tampon in. I didn’t want to go out in public and having people over outside my very small inner-circle gave me anxiety in case the baby became hungry. I wanted my mother. And chocolate. See? Very similar to that first demonic menses.

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Once I no longer needed to twist my body like a contortionist to get him attached…

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Frankly My Dear

Journalist & Features writer | Heartfelt storytelling about love, motherhood and life from a woman who’s been there.