The Flow of Love

THE FLOW OF LOVE



I think that I shall never see a sight more beautiful than a baby at mommy’s breast -- tiny head nestled into the crook of a tender, maternal arm; each one's eyes locked on the other’s like two lovers enthralled in complete and total adoration. Sounds lovely, doesn’t it?  Well, before you get lulled asleep by the violins now playing in your head along with visions of Madonna and Child, let me give you the rest of the picture which may not seem quite as divine.

I breast-fed my only child for two and a half years.  During this time he learned to do all kinds of tricks while suckling, which my breasts -- stretched like taffy -- would have vehemently protested had they been able to speak.  It’s just not cool to try to turn your body 180 degrees while attached to mom’s nipple with a suction pull that would put Hoover or Kirby to shame.  To give you some idea of just how strong this suction is, I will share with you the eloquent words of a friend I coached through her first attempt at breastfeeding:  That child latched on to my tit so hard I thought I was going to have to break his jaw to get him off!

And if this wasn’t enough, around the age of five months, sharp little razors began to sprout from my child’s gums, known in the non-nursing world as teeth.  A teething tot, seeking to ease the discomfort of sore, swollen gums, considers any item that lands in its mouth fair game for gnawing.  Mom’s nipples, already over-taxed, are no exception.  This atrocity I’m sure was discussed at the Geneva Convention under types of torture not to be permitted, ever.  My support group of veteran feeders, whom I consulted about this malady, assured me there was no malicious intent on behalf of my bouncy, baby boy.  However, I took issue with this counsel upon noticing a pattern for how these little shocks were delivered:  He’d bite, I would scream, he would smile.

Then there were the times when, due to unforeseen circumstances, baby and mom were separated past the time of the next feeding.  In eager readiness and anticipation of their duty, mom’s feeding sacks became filled to capacity as though they would burst.  A steady trickle of liquid leaked out all over the front of her attire leaving two big milk-soaked spots.  The searing stares of disgusted passersby paled in comparison to the painful throbbing caused by the dreadful “E” word – engorgement.  I prefer to call it “enragement” since this is what happens when the breasts, now angry at mom for not reaching the source of relief in due time, spitefully shut down their ducts and refuse to let the milk out, even as baby tugs with all he can muster.   

Fortunately, in these cases a hot shower and a compress of cold cabbage leaves worked wonders for stimulating what’s known in nursing circles as a “let-down reflex”.  Let-down does not quite illustrate the process. Let-down alludes to something much more tranquil and calm than the actual occurrence.  In reality, a deluge of the opaque, white substance comes gushing out of those feverish missiles, leaving baby gurgling and fighting for his life lest he might drown.  Amazingly, through this whole life-threatening ordeal, baby’s quivering lips remain attached to mom’s breast as though they were hanging on for dear life; which of course, they are.  Eventually things calm down a bit, then baby enjoys the reward of having braved such a violent and turbulent downpour – a peaceful slumber.

I’ve often wondered whose idea it was to put cabbage leaves on a nursing mother’s bloated, inflamed breasts in the first place.  I imagine it went something like this:  Baby screaming from hunger because mom’s milk won’t flow; a pain-ridden, nervous mom trying to soothe the famished child; an overwhelmed father trying to comfort the teary mother, throwing his hands up in the air and yelling, “Hell, try the cabbage, Martha!  The rutabagas obviously didn’t work!”

On the other end of the milk-flow spectrum, I’m reminded of a friend who never had the problem of obstructed supply.  As a matter of fact, her supply was so bountiful and free-flowing that she bragged, and readily demonstrated, that she could squirt her husband with breast milk from clear across the room.  This little act somehow worked its way into their bed-time games, which resulted in their bedroom walls being splattered in a sticky, dried substance that looked somewhat like Elmer’s glue with a yellowish tinge.  Subsequently, when visiting my friend, I remained ever vigilant that I might accidentally fall against the bedroom walls and remain permanently stuck there. She said I was being silly.  I said silly beats crazy by a long shot.

Alas, in spite of breasts stretched beyond anatomical recognition, a fear to this day of tiny teeth, and having faced the wrath of angry, uncooperative mammary glands, I still believe that the benefits of breastfeeding far outweigh the hazards.  This is true for both baby and mom.  As a young, single mother trying to work, go to school, maintain a household, and just figure out life, there were days when I lost perspective.  On such days, I could always find my place again in bright little eyes, adoringly blinking at me between gulps of my warm nectar.  Suddenly I could remember who I was – I was Wonder Woman! A “she-ro”! -- The Earth Goddess herself, raining out sweet milk, pouring life and love into my precious creation.

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