Women Don't Fail At Breastfeeding | Jenny Wren

WOMEN DON'T FAIL AT BREASTFEEDING

The odds are against them before they even begin.

Feeding their babies in a culture that is not conducive to optimum infant care.

For breastfeeding to happen, we need a culture:

⭐ where women aren't stressed about going back to work

⭐ where feeding a baby hourly isn't seen as spoiling them

⭐ where men don't complain about the mother-baby dyad taking over the bed

⭐ where birth interventions that affect breastfeeding rarely happen

⭐ where breasts aren't sexualised

⭐ where women see other women breastfeeding from childhood

⭐ where women's mental health after birth is prioritised

⭐ where people don't insist on "helping" by removing the baby from the mother rather than removing her responsibilities so she can care for her baby.

It's a wonder anybody manages to breastfeed under these conditions.

My heart hurts for those who wanted to feed and did not have the support and the information.

We can turn our anger towards other women (like the media encourage) or we can turn it at the institutions that divide us and fail us.

I will always champion choice but our choices do not exist in a vacuum - there is no doubt in my mind that many women never stood a chance.

The Motherhood Pause

It starts when I don’t get my period. Like a boat on a tumultuous sea, the waves now settle, and my little boat now tethered, bobs dreamily in a gentle breeze. A blessed reprieve.

I am calmer, more introspective. I contemplate more, think before I speak, watching my body expand.

With no cycles to mark the time, no ebb and flow, I see the days stretch before me in a line as I keep dreaming and growing.

I feel beautiful.

Then the placenta is birthed and my friend prolactin arrives, and now I am ruled by the anticipation of a baby’s cry.

Oxytocin, the hormone that washes you in peace so that the little one may feed.

I gaze into eyes that hold more magic than the stars.

With babe carried on my chest, I pass unseen amongst men.

That too, a reprieve of sorts.

And all this to last, until my baby moves forward, they stumble and crawl.

Only then will I feel the elements in my womb begin to stir again. And I move into my next incarnation.

Farewell to the motherhood pause.

My Son

My son, my son, my son. Entered the world into water and sank. Held in my new mama arms as I begged him not to cry. Sleepy baby. After that first parting after birth I never let him go again. Spent two years of his life strapped to my body in one way or another, then found his legs, learned to run.

My son. The boy who faces demons and comes out still fighting. That spirit unwavering in the face of darkness. The magnificent will. Those clenched fists and the tilt of his chin and his sheer determination and then oh... the softening. The cuddling. The sweetness and structure and beloved habits. The fading orange kitty clutched to his chest.

Until he goes running off again.