The Continued Rewards of Breastfeeding

by Jeanette LeBlanc

Here are the two journal entries I wrote about my nursing relationship with my daughter who is now eight months old.

February 2nd 2002 - 4 months, 2 weeks old

The Continued Rewards of Breastfeeding I continue to be surprised and rewarded by the wonderful nursing relationship that I have developed with my daughter. It is always changing, but seems to keep getting better and better and better with time.

Now, when she wakes from her nap, she immediately screams to be fed, little else will appease her. After a few minutes of sucking deeply, when her fierce hunger signals begin to abate and she is satiated, she will start pulling back every few minutes and looking up at me with a wonderful smile, as if to say, "Thanks Mama, I like this a lot."

I am so incredibly glad that I persevered through the rough patches we had this fall, because if I hadn't I would never have gotten to experience what a real joy breastfeeding can be. When all of the problems and difficulties have faded into the background and been replaced by a nursing relationship that is more than just provision of nourishment, but also a communion of souls. My body continues to make and deliver the sustenance she needs to survive, but for Bella and I nursing has transcended this complex biological process and become a time of renewal and replenishment for both of us; body, heart, mind and soul.

The experience of breastfeeding is highly sensual, but not in the sexual way we usually think of the word. The word sensual in its most basic form simply means "of the senses". Breastfeeding can be an explosion of smells, sights and sounds, a feast for the senses, a heightened awareness that seems to halt time. Nursing is tactile, and it is visual, it is the sound of Isabella gulping milk as my letdown occurs, it is the smell of a clean baby mingling with the sweetly rancid smell of spit up milk, it is the almost unbearable softness of her skin, it is the way my heart contracts as I am swept by a wave of emotion that is almost visceral in its intensity.

So, here we sit, as close physically and emotionally as two separate individuals can be. My skin against hers and her skin against mine. Her palm gently laid upon the curve of my breast, my arm supporting the weight of her body. I give, she takes. She gives, I take. Symbiosis of the highest degree. Peace. Quiet. Blessings. Warmth. Beauty. Energy. Life. Bliss. Mother. Daughter. Love.

March 14th 2002 - 5 months, 3 weeks +

Our nursing relationship has changed over the past few weeks, I guess it has been so gradual that I didn't really notice it or stop to think about the changes. Last night as I tried in vain to get her to latch on, and she twisted and turned every which way, trying to see the cat, grab my book and smile at her daddy, I suddenly realized that the world is grabbing her attention more and more these days.

Up until recently she nursed with a single-minded intensity, as if as soon as we sat down together the world shrunk till we were the only two people that existed. She would settle in, her body would relax; her face totally peaceful, and we just languished together in our self-created little bubble, totally absorbed in one another. As she drank her fill, her eyes would start to drift closed until finally, hunger satiated, her head would loll back, lips open in a perfect "O" and a tiny dribble of milk running down her chin. Not always asleep, but in a state of deep relaxation similar to that reached by deep meditation. This is so familiar to any nursing mother, the relaxed stupor of a baby drunk on the sweet nectar of mother's milk.

I too would be totally relaxed, the hormones produced by her suckling having also worked their magic on my body. Slowly the rest of the world came back into focus and we would move on with our day, but I often thought those precious moments are what helped me keep my sanity. I couldn't help but understand, after we finished a wonderful quiet nursing session, that all that I had was all that she needed.

Now, everything seems to be more interesting that nursing, and there are days when I wonder if she is getting enough nourishment. She pops on and off my breast at the slightest provocation, any noise or nearby movement is enough to catch her attention. She rolls off my lap, examines her surroundings and rolls back for more. She will sit up and smile for a little while, and without warning dive back in for another quick taste. Recently she has nursed sitting up, straddling my waist, reclining in from the side, lying down facing in the opposite direction, just turning her head enough to latch on, even once climbing up my body and nursing almost upside down. She grabs my breast, my hand, my face, the cushions on the sofa, and the cat that has climbed up looking for attention. She will pop off and smile the most amazing smile, push her lips together, furrow her brow and blow a big raspberry, and then without breaking my gaze open her mouth again and move her head around, back and forth, until her lips meet with my nipple.

I enjoy this new, curious baby girl. She takes such enjoyment in her surroundings and reminds me that everyday does not have to be mundane. But I miss nursing an infant, and I realize my sadness has much to do with my recent realization that I am no longer the center of her universe. I am still her sun, giver of life and sustenance. I am still the moon that lights her night sky. I am still the stars that will help her believe in all things magical. But now she looks beyond me, past me, around me, and wants to know what else is out there. She now eats solid food; I am no longer the only source of nourishment. She is learning to crawl; soon she will no longer need me to move her where she wants to go. She will talk someday soon, and I will no longer be needed to translate her needs to the world, the way only a Mama can. Her world has expanded and there are new galaxies for her to explore and discover every day. The change in our nursing relationship is just a symptom of that, the real changes are occurring inside her, indeed inside both of us, every second of every day. Each day that passes, every new skill learned, every obstacle encountered and conquered, every new object examined and understood; all of these things move her further from me. This is good, this is wonderful, this is exciting and necessary. But still, it leaves me with a little twinge of selfish sadness.

But then there are moments like the one I just experienced. Where I picked up my baby, just awakened from slumber, clenched fists rubbing eyes still blurry with sleep. We sit down together and I lift my shirt as her anxious fussing quiets in anticipation. She finds my nipple and begins to suckle, her hand tracing lazy patterns in the air and her eyes fixed on my face. I luxuriate in her softness, her sweetness, that irreproducible baby essence. Before I know it the edges soften, the room contracts, and once more we inhabit another universe that only the two of us can enter, and I know that no matter how much she grows, there will always be something she can get only from me; a mother's love. So here we are again, just us two. Isabella and I. Mother and Baby. Heaven on Earth.