Helen Chandler - 16 Mar 17
Nearly nine years ago I was pregnant with my first child. My community midwife had the moral rigidity of Mary Whitehouse and the interpersonal skills of Attila the Hun. We had already had one run-in when she described me as a single mother on her form.
“Umm, excuse me, but I’m not a single mother.”
“You told me you weren’t married!” she barked at me. (Yes, this was nine and not ninety years ago).
“Well, no, I’m not married. But I’ve been with my partner for nearly ten years, we own a house together, and we’ve chosen to have a baby together. So, although there’s nothing wrong with being a single mother, it’s not really accurate to describe me as one.”
She glared.
“If you are not married, you are single! If you are not married and you have a baby you are a single mother.”
There was a stand-off. Eventually, she reluctantly and resentfully transcribed ‘supported’ in brackets after the single mother comment, and with that I had to be content. Then we moved on to breastfeeding.
“Are you planning on breastfeeding?”
Now, I was planning on breastfeeding, rather trepidatiously, because I couldn’t really think of anything more disconcerting than a small human being feeding off me. But I knew all the health benefits, and had decided to give it a go. My aim was to get to three months, if I could, and then surrender thankfully to blessed formula, happily conscious of having done my bit.
“Yes, I’d like to try.”
Another ferocious glare.
“Well. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to. It’s very hard work you know. Most people give up.”
Now, it is possible that she wasn’t a total bitch, but a master in the subtle art of reverse psychology. Either way, it worked. Out of sheer contrariness I vowed there and then that this baby would be breastfed for the NHS recommended six months if it killed me.
In the end we were lucky. We got off to a bit of a rocky start, but were lucky enough to have an amazing lactation consultant at our hospital who sorted us out. And after that I never looked back, and I breastfed my daughter until she was nearly eighteen months old without as much as a sniff of a bottle of formula. Yes, there were times when being able to go out and leave someone else in charge sounded appealing, as did an unbroken night’s sleep. But by and large, it felt so much easier to lift my top and whip out a boob than to faff around with sterilising bottles, mixing powder, achieving the correct temperature and remembering to take all the necessary gubbins with me when I went out, so six months came and went, we introduced solids, but I just carried on breastfeeding.
The decision to stop was also relatively easy. My oldest friend had asked me to be her bridesmaid, she was getting married in Spain, my daughter couldn’t tolerate the heat in Britain, let alone central Spain, so she would have to stay behind with my partner while I flew off and left them to it. Six weeks later partner and I were getting married ourselves, and my parents were going to be looking after our daughter while we had a blissful 48 hours honeymoon. I didn’t want her to still be dependent on boob to get to sleep at that point, so decided I would have to wean her.
Shortly before crunch time, we were staying at my parents and I got tonsillitis. I was feverish and poorly, and my mum took over caring for my daughter. It turned out she wasn’t actually dependent on boob to get to sleep after all – a cuddle from Nanna and a beaker of cow’s milk did the trick nicely. Having made that discovery it seemed madness to go back, so when we got home my partner made sure he was around for bedtime for a week or so, and she never asked for breastmilk again, or seemed to miss it.
Fast forward a few years and my second daughter is 27 months, and still breastfeeding. Usually just at bedtime, with the occasional feed in the morning if she’s not well (or I’m too tired to play and getting my boobs out gives me an extra ten minute doze!), or at nap time if she’s particularly unsettled. I intended to stop around eighteen months, but neither of us really seemed ready. And I was absolutely determined to stop as she turned two, but somehow it didn’t quite happen either. And now I just don’t know whether to try and deliberately wean her, or wait until she self-weans naturally.
She is an ultra-confident, incredibly happy little girl, with a great attachment to me, but also to her dad and big sister. Breastfeeding her into the toddler years certainly hasn’t harmed her development – may even have helped it, who knows?
Sometimes, though, I am desperate for her to stop. For three years now my body has not been entirely my own, and I would quite like it back. I would like to be able to hoik my poor beleaguered bosoms into a pretty under-wired bra in a desperate (and perhaps futile) attempt to give them some uplift, and I would like to be able to access more contraception choices. I would like to think that at some point my toddler would cease to point to my breasts and yell “MILK” at the top of her voice, and that my husband might be able to erase this from his memory and see me as a sexy and desirable woman rather than a refreshment bar for his youngest daughter.
Other times, I think it will break my heart when I feed her for the last time. I will lose my magic powers to instantly succour and console when she is hurt or ill or tired or sad. I won’t be having any more babies, so the last time my (not so) baby girl nestles up to me, latches on, and draws nutrition and protection and comfort from my body will be the last time I ever perform this biological function which I thought I would have to grit my teeth and endure, but which has turned out to be fundamental to my identity as a woman and a mother.* I will be admitting that this phase of my life is over. And I’m just not sure I’m ready for that.
*I am very aware that many women choose not to, or are unable to, breastfeed, or do breastfeed but don’t enjoy it, and that this can be a very emotive topic. I am not in any way judging other mothers’ decisions, and firmly believe that ‘fed is best’, I am just reflecting on my own personal experiences in this blog.
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I'm author of novels 'Two For Joy' and 'To Have and to Hold' and mum to two daughters aged twelve and six. As well as writing, and my children, I love reading, cooking, eating and exploring London (and further afield when I get the chance).
I was born and brought up in Liverpool, studied English at Oxford
University, and now live in East London with my husband, daughters and cat.
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