Feed at your own risk

At least once or twice a year, a media report surfaces about an incident involving a store employee clashing with a mother who is in the process of publicly breastfeeding her infant. I’ve always felt fairly neutral on the subject seeing as how I’m not outraged over the fact that women have the option of feeding their infants via lactation, nor am I grossed out over this perfectly natural function of the human body. If I were, I guess I’d rethink the idea of Registered Nursing as a future career.

Normally, I have tunnel vision when I’m shopping and I am easily distracted by flashing lights and bright colors, so unless a woman is breastfeeding her child under a strobe-lit sign that says “99% OFF,” then I’m probably not likely to notice her or her baby at all.

Before I had my son, I would, on the rare occasion, catch a glimpse in my peripheral vision of a mother nursing her baby. It was always being conducted in a very discreet manner and seemed like a sweet, tender moment that I had inadvertently intruded upon. At the time, I always wondered if I would have the courage to do the same with my own child someday.

My questions were answered soon after my bundle of emotion-fueled testosterone entered the world and staked his claim on my body’s schedule. What I had imagined would be a pleasant bonding experience turned into a nightmarish episode right out of a horror movie.

Babies have what is called a rooting reflex. This happens when you lightly brush the side of their cheek and their body receives the signal that it’s time for some maternal-aided nourishment so they turn their head towards wherever the source of food will most likely be. My son’s reflex was set off by the wind, my voice, or just lying horizontal.

When it was time to eat, he would come at me like a rabid octopus with his arms flailing wildly around his head, grasping at anything in reach. If I tried to cover us with a blanket, he’d rip it off and throw it to the floor. His head would whip back and forth while he grunted and snorted like a starving pig. His tiny baby fingers would scratch and claw at the skin on my chest. It was like trying to feed an agitated badger.

Even while nursing, he’d growl and grunt while squeezing my hand in a tight baby death grip. Sometimes, he’d stare up at me with one eye like he was making sure I wasn’t going to run away in the middle of his meal. It wasn’t as precious as it was creepy. Needless to say, I never attempted public breastfeeding because of his antics.

My daughter was another story. She’d calmly open her mouth in a small “O” and wait until the proper position was attained. Then she’d politely fold her hands together and quietly finish her feeding in relative peace.

Even though I could’ve nursed her in Walmart, I never did. Call me modest, but I found it more tranquil to schedule shopping trips around my children’s needs. I still try to do that even though they are now strictly self-fed by hand.

So if you’re a new mom who is considering attempting this slightly controversial yet totally natural method of feeding your new baby, heed my warning:  public breastfeeding should be conducted only with a cooperative child; otherwise, people will think you are trying to smuggle a frightened possum under your shirt.