IT MUST BE ALL THAT BREASTMILK

Esther Walker - 24 Mar 16

I have a unique insight into the benefits of breastfeeding. I wasn’t just breastfed exclusively for six months, I was breastfed for four years. Four years! My mum was (still is) a true bohemian and saw no problem with it.

So when I was pregnant with my first child, Kitty, who is now five, and was confronted with this thing that breastfeeding is absolutely the very most best thing you can do for your child – it will be so healthy! And clever! – I just tittered and shook my head. What nonsense.

Because by rights, if breastfeeding is so key, if it’s all so vital that you ought to let your child be hungry rather than give it formula – as various lactation lunatics suggested to me was the smart thing to do – then breastmilk ought to be pretty amazing stuff! I ought to be Supergirl! Right? See me leaping tall buildings and being the CEO of some amazing company!!

Sorry to disappoint you, but it hasn’t worked out quite like that.

Where do I start? My health has never been outstanding – I have for years had chronic indigestion and an assortment of stomach problems, recurring tonsillitis, coughs that go on for months and (had) acne. I am not stupid, but I am idle. I did fine at school but ploughed my degree. I am now a writer but barely scrape a living and have to rely heavily on my husband.

Oh yes my husband! Let’s talk about him for a bit. My husband, Giles, was exclusively bottlefed. Not a drop of breastmilk passed his lips. So he must be a disaster! Riddled with physical and emotional problems?

No. Giles is ill probably once a year and shakes it off quickly. There is no such thing as ManFlu in this house. He has clear skin, beautiful teeth, quick wits, a firm handshake and a stomach like a concrete elephant. His well-coordinated and tidy. He got a first class degree from Oxford and works hard and efficiently as a writer and broadcaster to give us all a lovely, calm, happy family life.

Or what about my sisters? My elder sisters were only partially breastfed by my mother as it didn’t really happen that easily with them. They, like Giles, are rarely ill and are strong, happy, well-adjusted.

And they were all fed on formula that was around in the 1970s! Formula now is like platinum space dust in comparison.

I partially breastfed both my kids for about six weeks because, if I might speak plainly, one of my boobs works properly and the other one doesn’t. So the one that worked, worked fine, but the other wouldn’t play ball. And babies tend to need both sides: there was never enough for a child to survive on.

But, look, I really don’t want to sound defensive about it, like I was driven to formula by desperation and that was the only reason; the breastfeeding and expressing that I did do made me realise that there was only a finite amount of it that I was prepared to put up with. At some point, well before six months, I knew I would have gone fully nuts. Anyway, for whatever reason I reached for the formula without hesitation or guilt.

Let’s have a look at how those kids are getting on, shall we?

So far, though I know it’s early days, Kitty is like her Dad. She’s a little steamroller, both mentally and physically. And my youngest, Sam, who is now nearly 3 is like me – poor mite – and has coughs that go on for weeks, is picky with his food and could be really good at his letters if he only applied himself.

You will now want to give me a whole load of statistics about why exclusive breastfeeding is better and my children will probably eventually die horrible lonely deaths because I wasn’t able to do it. And do tell me all that, if it makes you feel better. Have a go at me for being irresponsible, if that’s how you see it, for saying it doesn’t matter what you do.

I will tell you in return that the real evil is persuading women that breastfeeding is so important that they rather ought to let their babies scream with hunger than give them formula.

I will also tell you that fussing about breast vs bottle is probably the most spoilt and silly non-debate I’ve ever heard, capable only of people who are truly blessed to live in a place were such things are even up for discussion.

Do you know what it reminds me of most? It reminds me of the stupid, petty – literally small – Lilliputians in Gulliver’s Travels arguing over which end to crack a boiled egg. It really is, when I think about it, funny. At times the hysteria, the self-righteousness of it all, just makes me laugh.

But then I do have a very good sense of humour. It must be all that breastmilk.

Esther Walker

Esther Walker is a freelance journalist for The Times, the Daily Mail, The Daily Telegraph and a beauty columnist for Sainsburys Magazine. Her two autobiographical books The Bad Cook and the Bad Mother are published by The Friday Project. She lives in London with her husband, writer and broadcaster Giles Coren, and their children Kitty, 5 and Sam, 3.

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