What happens to knackered dairy cows?

Lara Lockwood - 21 May 16

Because I’m starting to feel like one. Breastfeeding in the early days was a roller coaster of sensation and emotion. From the first joyful latching-on post-birth, to the puncturing of a blocked nipple (with my own fingernails) in midnight desperation and draining my breast onto the kitchen floor; there has been something for everyone. Well, not everyone maybe, but you get my point.

The early, gentle, delicate feeds are rapidly being replaced with voracious guzzling. Woe betide me if I leave the feeding gap slightly too long. The baby machine clamps its unbelievably (and I-sometimes-wonder-if-unnecessarily) strong jaws around my delicate teat and opens the suction value. If anyone speaks from behind him during a feed there’s a fair chance he’ll make a genuine attempt to tear the nipple right off my chest like a minuscule tyrannosaurus. He’s only three and a half months old; what’s it going to feel like in, say, another two months’ time?

Anyway, this dairy cow has some way to go before becoming dog food or fertiliser (I’ve got no real idea if this is what happens to elderly milkers – I can’t quite bring myself to look it up). My view on my own udders has changed entirely after a few months of really putting them through their paces. There is grief for the girls that went before. They have transformed, and we are not just talking size: blocked ducts, cracked nipples, nipple blisters, and giving birth to a human hoover has not helped them retain all their youthful beauty. I do feel immensely proud. My body is supporting my child and nourishing him. It isn’t always easy, but seeing him grow out of clothes and move up a size fills me with genuine pride. If that’s a deadly sin, then load me into a handcart and send me down the fiery hill.

My ‘bar always open’ approach is not always recognised as a policy of generosity worthy of unquestioning gratitude, and my precious milk-muncher generally hates being touched during a feed. If I rest a loving hand on him, or his foot reaches out and touches my thigh, there is a shrug to get me away or a kick of annoyance from both feet. I mean seriously, you are gnawing on my nipple like it’s the end of a Peperami (it’s a bit of an animal), let me at least stroke your cheek every so often and attempt to engage in this mystical symbiosis. Selfish, that’s what he is. But, at other times he’ll clasp my finger with a commitment that says ‘never leave me’ or he’ll gaze up adoringly, with dilated, loving pupils that say ‘mummy, I couldn’t manage without you’. And of course I will never leave him, and I’ll always be there when he needs me.

If you want me, you’ll find me in the back corner of the retirement field eating the best and greenest grass.

Lara Lockwood

Lara became mummy to Luther at the beginning of 2016. Living by the sea with her husband, she works as an illustrator and writer; she also blogs about being a mummy at www.frankieandthelamb.com.

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