As I continue to enhance my supply of breastmilk using whatever privileges I have because of my circumstances, I feel indebted to all the people who are feeding me—with their support, care and help
I took a photograph of the poached eggs breakfast table, that seemed like a maternal pause, as proof of the immense tenderness of our partnership. Pic/Rosalyn D’Mello
Some mornings ago, as I admired the early spring sunlight gleaming off the white ceramic lid of the kettle nestled on our round dining table, I felt grateful for that moment of maternal pause. My partner and I were still coming to terms with our post-partum altered state of sleep deprived consciousness, and so, as the contents of the kettle warmed their way into our insides, we felt energised and comforted by each sip of the adrak badishep chai I’d brewed. That morning I had prepared poached eggs. I had not expected to feel so ravenous, post-pregnancy. Especially since I had been on a strict diet since November because of my gestational diabetes diagnosis, the licence I was given upon my discharge from the hospital to “eat whatever I wanted and felt like” was one I welcomed eagerly.
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I’d heard from friends that breastfeeding really fuelled one’s hunger, but I hadn’t anticipated the bottomlessness of it. As someone who gave birth through a C-Section, it took longer for my milk to let down, for my teats to announce themselves visibly enough to facilitate a successful latch, and subsequently provide sufficient nourishment to our newborn. It was hard to swallow the doctor’s suggestion that each feed be supplemented with formula. When, five days after birth, his weight fell again by 20 per cent, we had to feed exclusively with the bottle, and I was told by the midwife to begin pumping every three hours in order to increase my supply.
Had I not been held by other young feminist mother-friends who eagerly and intuitively reached out to me to share their own initial struggles with breastfeeding, I would have perhaps spiralled into a pity fest and blamed my body for what was feeling like a failure. One friend had given birth prematurely through an unscheduled C-Section. It took her child two months to latch and she, too, fed him formula while pumping every three hours to increase her supply. She shared with me her frustration and her elation when, in the end, everything began to work out. Another dear friend encouraged me to continue breastfeeding even if it seemed like my milk wasn’t enough to nourish our child. She said it would definitely help. I was still nursing trauma from having spent almost 12 hours on our first day back home feeding our child, only to discover the next day that he’d in fact lost weight. Her gentle urging gave me the strength to rely on the fact that he would derive sustenance from the formula while being able to practise latching if I took the pressure off myself. Another friend told me how her nipples were sore and bleeding which made breastfeeding painful in the beginning. Another shared with me her inability to feed after her C-Section not only because her supply was too little but because her child had been diagnosed with jaundice and had to be placed in intensive care for 10 days. She empathised fully with my frustration with pumping only to discover barely 15ml of milk. She promised me it would become more abundant with time and that our child would successfully transition to being exclusively breastfed when my supply was good enough. Yesterday, when, twice, I secreted at least 60 ml of milk after the standard 15-minute interval, pumping both my breasts at the same time, I felt my morale was boosted. I have not dared to think about how fragile my mental state would have been had I not had the luxury of such feminist solidarity, such nutritious support.
I took a photograph of the poached eggs breakfast table for later remembrance, as proof of the immense tenderness of our partnership. The rest of the day I thought about how motherhood is possibly an elaborate feedback loop. I am obligated to feed my body in order to nurture my child. While the patriarchal world loves to emphasise the significance of breastfeeding and for a duration of at least two years, my conversations with mothers have revealed to me the enormous dearth of support systems that can facilitate this lactational dependency. Where I live, most women nurse until six month after which they introduce their children to soft foods and formula. But I can see how privilege operates. The availability of clean water, of consistent electricity in order to both pump and store breast milk or to purchase and prepare formula is deeply tied to economies. Back home it’s a lot harder to imagine mothers in non-urban set-ups having such access.
While I continue to enhance my supply using whatever privileges I have because of my circumstances, I feel indebted to all the people who are feeding me. Last evening I asked my father-in-law to make me a lemon cake, if he had time, and within two hours he sent me a photograph of the batter in the oven. Some days ago I asked my partner’s Aunt Maridl if she could make me a sour-dough loaf. Three days ago she appeared at our door with a freshly baked rye-based bread. My partner and I have been taking turns to feed each other. Sometimes the gestures are non-culinary, like him applying Betadine to the end stitches when they threatened to open up, or him holding me when I return to bed after the second feed of the night, smoothing my passage into sleep. I’ve never before felt so out-of-my-depth and yet so comforted.
Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx
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The views expressed in this column are the individual’s and don’t represent those of the paper
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