It Does a Body Good

Breastfeeding my one year old daughter these days often involves a game I affectionately refer to as Peek-A-Boobie. The setting is always the same; it's her darkened bedroom, where the Pavlovian response and a lack of anything else going on conspire to keep my wiggling, grasping baby focused on the task at hand. Having strapped on the feedbag, The Boss's game commences.

Five fingers, skinny for a baby's, but still with some pudge, come around my breast to settle, splayed, over her visible eye. I say Peek-A-Boo! Her giggle is a pink "O" of tongue, nipple and lips. She covers her eye again. Peek-A-Boobie! I get silly, squeezing her up close to my face in a bicep curl I don't mind doing. She is hot and supple against my forearms.

I'm not an overly attentive mother. I'm not too touchy-feely. My daughter is happy entertaining herself because, I'd like to think, I've created a safe environment where she is comfortable doing so. She's not clingy. She does not need to be held all the time. She smiles with penetrating blue eyes that are all her own.

It's the self-sufficiency we share that makes me value the breastfeeding bond that much more. That we are two separate beings is clear. That she will only grow more independent by the day is a fact I not only acknowledge, but encourage. By breastfeeding her, I am mining the caves of primal maternity that have never been a prominent feature on my emotional map. In those recesses lay the feelings that seem to flow closer to the surface in many women. From some, devotion, protection and patience gush. From me, they trickle. But they are undiluted from the breast.

Three times a day now, I am everything she needs. I am everything I can be.


Note: Please see Her Bad Mother for more on this subject.