“I am SHOCKED and APPALLED. Get thee to thine eyebrow threader STAT!”
Breastfeeding. I’ve already touched on how it proved quite the ordeal for Raffles (“La Tombola”) and I in the early, and indeed later, days. Thankfully, all issues (you name them, we had them) have finally been resolved and we’ve now arrived at a stage where we both enjoy it to a point that is probably verging on unseemly. At the risk of sounding like a thoroughly maudlin millie, breastfeeding for my daughter and I has become a truly gratifying experience; precious shared moments of tenderness. [Pause to allow for the disposal of sick bucket contents].
You may have deduced that I’m a fan of breastfeeding, then? If you haven’t, I’m doing something wrong. Fear not, however, I’m not here in my capacity as Capo di Tutti Capi of the breastfeeding Mafia. You’ll get no judgemental stares from me if I see your treasured little bundle quaffing a flute of formula. Honestly, I won’t even notice, so preoccupied will I be trying to stop my beloved Raffles from howling like I’ve just handed her a posy of nettles. Such an incident occurred today.
My little girl is amazing. She has the bubbliest personality of anyone (child, adult, pet) I’ve ever met. Her innocent little face, so devoid of cynicism and bitterness, makes my heart leap with love EVERY SINGLE TIME I see it. But, and there is a but, man alive, can she cry. That someone so diminutive (twenty weeks old, can still wear newborn size at a push) possesses a set of lungs so formidable seems miraculous to me. Raffles is not your average baby (see what i did there? I’ll get my coat).
You’re probably wondering where I’m going with this? (If brevity is the soul of wit, I’m one dour old gasbag). Today’s incident: Raffles and I, having expended way too many kilojoules of energy maraca-shaking and scarf-waving at music class, find ourselves in dire need of a coffee (decaf, sigh). No problem, we’re right next to a perfectly decent coffee-shop. In we go. It’s busy but not brimful and although our usual secluded booths are occupied, we spy a table in the middle of the floor. We situate ourselves right in the very heart of the room and then the fun begins: my angelic little nipper starts to bawl. The fizzing hum of conversation that had saturated the cafe with a gentle effervescence ceases immediately. Cups stop rattling, spoons don’t jangle, the coffee machine grinds to a halt. Apart from Raffle’s screams of unmitigated anguish, the silence is deafening. There’s no doubt about it, these are howls of hunger. If I’m to have any chance of restoring the peace, I’ll need to start feeding her, right here, right now, right in the middle of the room. So I do.
If you’d have told me a year ago that a mere 365 days later I’d be breastfeeding my baby in the hub of a crowded cafe I’d have likely had you committed. It’s not that I objected to breastfeeding in public. Well, that’s not entirely true. I’m loathe to admit it but before I had Raffles, I’d do everything in my power to avoid child-friendly establishments. Cafes were a place of relaxation, somewhere to indulge in a few moments of quietude while attempting to look as urbane as possible and not like someone who does in fact prefer tea to coffee. The presence of whining children, if I’m being totally honest, wrecked my pretentious, affected, CAFFEINATED coffee buzz. I realise I sound completely hideous but I promise I’ve changed. I’m all about cacophony and commotion now; the louder the better is what I say. Seriously though, I must stress that I was never opposed to the act of breastfeeding in public. Why on earth would I be? A feeding baby’s a quiet one after all!
Back to earlier, Raffles is being difficult. She feeds but pauses every couple of minutes to emit a series of serenity-shattering wails. Peace is never wholly restored. A few people are beginning to frown. (It’s quite possible that in my state of harassed desperation I imagined it but I’m convinced two elderly women shot me disapproving looks). Suddenly I have never been so aware of what I am doing. I am using my partially-exposed breast to placate an agitated baby in the middle of a crowded room. Failing miserably to exude an air of unflappable confidence, I turn beetroot-red in the way that only ruddy-complexioned Irish country girls can. I am well and truly flapped. And then, out of the blue, the heroine of our tale enters.
A sophisticated woman of fiftyish leaves her companion, walks over, and sits down opposite me. “I had twins, 6lb each. I breastfed both of them for over a year. It’s not easy sometimes,” she says. I want to weep with gratitude. The ice has been broken. People start chattering, the coffee-machine whirs back into life (useful for a cafe, no?), my face returns to a vaguely human colour. Raffles and I are instantly invisible (in a good way). We’re no longer the source of an unspeakable ruckus, just a mother and baby enjoying our preferred libations. All because this LOVELY woman noticed our very palpable discomfort and wanted to put us at ease. It worked. From that moment on, we both drank freely.
Not Your Average Baby 