When I was pregnant, I learned about a weekly
breastfeeding support group at the hospital where I delivered Pippa. It sounded like an excellent place to make
new friends and get free advice about the mysterious art of breastfeeding. I attended the breastfeeding support group
the Thursday before I went into labor.
The moms were friendly, and many were there with babies less than a
month old. I assumed I would be back as
soon as I had my own sweet newborn.
The class was held on Thursdays at 11 a.m. Every Wednesday night, I went to bed assuming
I would take Pippa to the support group in the morning. And every Thursday morning, I convinced
myself to stay home. I was too damn
tired to drive. Pippa might want to eat
when we were in the car. She might
cry. There might not be enough seats at
the group’s meeting room – then what?
How could I sit on the floor and breastfeed? How would I get all the paraphernalia we needed
from the car to the meeting room and back
again? Could I carry Pippa and a
backpack at the same time? Or should I
just use the stroller? But what if Pippa
did not want to be in the stroller?
Could I carry her and push the stroller at the same time? What if I tripped what if what if what if?
Week after week, I stayed home. There were too many variables, too many
issues that might arise, too many catastrophes that might occur. Home was easier.
Yet a small piece of me kept protesting my self-imposed
exile. That small piece begged and
pleaded and bargained and negotiated and threatened until finally, five weeks
after Pippa was born, we made our triumphant debut at the breastfeeding support
group.
It was glorious.
I sat in a circle of moms as a lactation consultant answered our
questions. Pippa was not hungry, but I
managed to undress and weigh her and confirm that she had gained weight since
our last doctor’s appointment.
Hallelujah! My child was not
starving at my breast!
The group met for an hour, and I spent most of that
time stealing glances at a woman on the other side of the room. From one angle, she looked like a law school
classmate; but then she would turn her head and I was not so certain. When the group disbanded, I was in the elevator
with this woman and asked if she had gone to UCLA for law school – she
had! We chatted as long as our babies
allowed and then talked about seeing each other at next week’s meeting.
I felt a touch of panic as we said our farewells. Did this mean I had to go to breastfeeding
group next week? What if we had a
terrible sleepless night the day before?
What if I was sick? What if Pippa
was napping when it was time to leave?
What if what if what if? It had
taken me five weeks to gather the necessary courage to come today. Would I be ready to undergo this entire ordeal
in one week? But what if I missed class
and my law school classmate only came to see me? She would hate me!
As I drove out of the parking garage, Pippa started to
cry. I thought she might just be fussing
because she did not want to be in her car seat, but her cries turned into wails
and the wails escalated into screams.
She was hungry. Holy fuck, no,
she was hungry! She had not nursed
during the entire breastfeeding support group, but now she was ready to
eat. What should I do? We were five minutes away from home! Should I pull over and feed Pippa in the car? But how could I do that? I had never done that before! My breastfeeding pillow was at home. What if someone looked in the window and saw
my breast? What if Pippa did not want to
feed in the car? What if she did not
want to go back in the car seat when she was done feeding?
I kept driving but berated myself. I was a terrible, thoughtless, selfish
mother. I did not deserve this
baby. Everyone must think I was a
terrible mother. What sort of mother
dragged her daughter to a breastfeeding support group so she could socialize
with other moms? Selfish selfish
selfish! How could I subject my daughter
to a car seat and the torture of being hungry for five minutes when we could have
stayed at home?
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