The Art of Breastfeeding

by Shel Franco

My 4-year-old son is far from shy. Like most extroverts, he calls it like it is.

One day, as we leisurely strolled through the isles of a discount department store, my son spotted a rack of bottles. He glanced at my pregnant figure and stopped in front of the display. "The baby needs these," he said.

"No way," I smiled. "The baby will have ba, just like you."

My son looked a bit concerned. "But, babies use these."

I couldn't believe my ears. I was a breastfeeding mom. My son had never had anything but his "ba." How in the world did he get the idea that feeding a baby with a bottle was the norm.

"You're being silly," I said, trying to figure out what I'd done wrong.

"But, mommy," he insisted. "Megan drinks a bottle."

"Yes," I answered.

"And, mommy, other babies at the park drink bottles."

Amazing. Even in my home, a place that I considered a safe and positive haven for breastfeeding, society corrupted its youth.

The rest of the day, I took notice. I kept one eye peeled for mother/baby couples. Sure enough, I spotted a handful of bottle feeding pairs but not one breastfeeding mother and child.

I paid a visit to the book store. Determined, I uncovered a picture book, with illustrations of a nursing pair. That night, I read to my son. The new book talked about belly buttons and birth. When I got to the part about breastfeeding, I paused.

"See," I said, as I held my son close. "This is how mommy nursed you when you were just a tiny baby."

"Uh-huh," he said, rubbing his eyes.

"And I will nurse our new baby, so he will grow healthy and strong, just like you."

"Uh-huh," he yawned.

As we drifted off to sleep, I doubted he heard anything I said.

A few weeks later, my son and I enjoyed our weekly grocery outing. As we picked out the shiniest green apples, who should pull up beside us, but a mother, feeding her tiny infant a bottle. I smiled. The woman smiled back.

"How old?" I asked.

"Ten days," she glowed.

I drew my son's attention to the car-seated bundle. "We're going to have one of those any day now, right?"

"You're going to be a big brother?" the woman asked. "How old are you?"

My son's big brown eyes met mine, and he cocked his head to one side. "Why doesn't she get ba?" asked my son.

My face felt flush. My knees went weak.

"What did he say?" asked the woman.

"He's just used to seeing babies breastfeed," I replied.

"Oh," she said with a forced smile.

As I wheeled my son away, I felt I owed him an explanation. I tried to tell him about formula, and that some mommies don't like to nurse. But at that moment, nothing seemed to make sense to either one of us.

Our baby arrived right on time. I rarely nursed without big brother by my side. I could tell my oldest son was amazed by this little creature, and I was thrilled to give him such and intimate lesson in love, nurturing, and breastfeeding.

These days, we've moved on to lessons of different kinds. When my son took up painting a few months ago, I expected pictures of trees and sunshines. Imagine my surprise when his first painting was of "Mommy giving baby, ba."

I must have done something right, after all. About the author-

Shel Franco is a freelance writer and breastfeeding mother. Her articles about parenting, childbirth, and breastfeeding appear online and in publications such as Midwifery Today.