breastfeeding

The Cookie by Caroline M. Grant

At seven weeks, Ben was thriving; nursing constantly through a growth spurt, alert and interested in the world, smiling at his dad and me. He had just gotten control of his hands and we laughed as we watched him wrap one hand around the other and, brow furrowed in concentration, push it into his mouth. Self-soothing! we crowed, and encouraged the behavior as best we could. It was hard to imagine a day when he would actually pick something up to put in his mouth.
 

On Breastfeeding and Weaning Under Occupation by Laila El-Haddad

For Yousuf and I, the past two years have been an interesting journey, to put it mildly, wrought with the obvious hurdles of living under occupation, and nursing him has helped us both get through it. It was our moment together-our special time that, though time-consuming and difficult at time, we both equally enjoyed, that no one could interfere with-no matter the time or circumstance (save for an hour when I was interrogated by the Shin Bet in Rafah, and a then two-month-old Yousuf was howling in the other room with a female soldier because they forbid me from taking him in the interrogation with me).

Good Boob, Bad Boob by Annika Rahe

It all started years ago, when a thoughtless boyfriend gave me a backhanded compliment. He told me that if he were to create the perfect woman he would give her my boobs, but he'd make both of them like the left one because it was bigger.
 
"Bigger?" I asked. "One side isn't bigger. They're perfectly the same."
 
"Yes, they are perfect, but not the same. And if I were making my perfect woman, they'd both be like the left one."
 

Motherhood, Feminism and the Graveyard of Unwearable Bras by Violet A. Shearer

Motherhood, Feminism and the Graveyard of Unwearable Bras By Violet A. Shearer In the 1960's, one of the symbols of the feminist movement was the classic burning of the bras. It represented liberation from the oppression of the male patriarchy, right down to unbinding yourself from the constrictions of your smooth silhouette, created in the first place for the visual pleasures of men. Interesting premise, until you realize that some men actually fancy perky girls, swinging freely in the breeze. I have long been intrigued by the concept of emancipating oneself by setting one's undergarments on fire, and then going without any undergarments at all. Especially because when I finally hit puberty at the age of 15, my breasts grew disproportionately large. My small, five-foot frame has been weighted down by either a C or D cup ever since, causing poor posture and no end to back problems. Add to that a rib measurement of 34 inches, and you have the recipe for a really awkward bra size to shop for. Bra manufacturers rarely acknowledge petite, small-ribbed, big-busted women in their product lines. Going out in public in a granny bra with generously wide and unfashionable shoulder straps has never seemed like a flattering option to me.

The Milky Way of Doing Business by Katie Allison Granju

In fact, his concern came immediately after aggressive, personal lobbying by representatives of one of the AAP's biggest financial contributors, the $3 billion U.S. infant formula industry. Within days of a New Orleans meeting with worried formula industry reps, Johnston hurled the considerable credibility and persuasive impact of the esteemed American Academy of Pediatrics into an explicit effort to stifle the most ambitious initiative ever undertaken to promote breastfeeding in the United States.

Goodbye Party by Rachel Sarah

If my body could talk, it would say, take me back, take me back. My breasts are shapeless and deflated. Some nights there is milk in one, but not in the other.
 
My daughter Mae asked me recently, "If I suck really hard, will it come out?"
 
"No, no, no!" I wanted to tell her. My body wanted to curl up into a ball like a cat in the afternoon sun and sleep.
 
There's the doorbell. It's New Year's Eve. My friend Siobhan and her two-and-a-half-year-old daughter Hazel are here for our Goodbye Milk Party.
 

Pumping-in-Style by Christine Ferris

I am a shameless breastfeeder. I feel completely comfortable lifting up my shirt and letting my baby nurse in restaurants as I peruse the menu, in bookstores as I sit on the floor in the mystery section, in office waiting rooms as I wait for my cat to be vaccinated. But I will not pump milk in front of anyone. It is a strange and vaguely embarrassing thing to do. I find it hard to separate it from the other bodily functions of elimination. We are trained to think of our excretions as dirty, something we do in private and then wash our hands. I know the milk that flows, or sometimes trickles, out of my breast is clean -- full, in fact, of antibodies; I still wash my hands after I'm finished. I never know what to say to people at work when I have to go do this pumping thing and yet I'll be absent too long not to excuse myself in some way. I have to go pump milk? Excuse me while I go express myself? Moo? Usually I end up vaguely gesturing at my chest and mumbling, "I have to go aahh, be in my office for awhile."

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