Feeding My Son

In honor of World Breastfeeding Week, I’m including an essay I wrote last year. I sent it to the Philadelphia Inquirer’s Metro commentary section, but the editor wrote back, “My page is heavy on local politics and subjects of general interest.” She suggested I send it to a parenting magazine instead. I resisted the urge to fire back an email telling her that I thought nursing in public was of general interest, and my target audience was broader than just nursing mothers. So instead I’m sharing it with you, Dear Reader.

Last week, I took my son to see my parents in State College. As the trip—my first alone with my 3-month-old—neared, I became anxious about one crucial detail: where to feed him.

My son Benjamin is breastfed. On our last trip, my husband sat with me in the car as I fed Ben. I feel like breastfeeding in public makes me vulnerable, as though I’m back in caveman days and if saber-tooth tigers came along I’d be dinner. Having my husband there made me feel safe. But now I was traveling alone, and the baby could not go for more than two hours without eating.

I have always been a modest person, feeling exposed if I so much as jog in a sports bra. When pregnant, I did not plan to breastfeed in public.

But then, on the 4^th of July, I took my 6-week-old son to see the parade on the Parkway, and he got hungry. I looked around in a panic and then, as the mummers strutted down the street, I sat on a curb and huddled under a blanket. No one noticed; a string band is a great distraction.

Although no one has ever chastised me for nursing in public, in a culture that considers the primary purpose of breasts to be titillation, there is always the chance that someone will get upset. My aunt still remembers a woman yelling at her when, decades ago, she fed her son. In Utah, a woman was asked to stop breastfeeding in a Burger King. Someone I know was even asked not to breastfeed at a table at Babies-R-Us where she was representing a community organization.

Philadelphia is ahead of the rest of the state; the city has an ordinance that allows breastfeeding in public places. So why do I feel nervous?

I don’t believe that everyone knows about the law. In Maryland last month, a woman in Starbucks was asked to either breastfeed under a blanket or move to the bathroom—despite Maryland’s law allowing public breastfeeding. (A Starbucks representative quickly said that the employee was wrong and that Starbucks complies with all local laws involving breastfeeding.)

I knew as I planned my trip that I was unlikely to find anywhere private to feed my baby. The service plazas off the turnpike don’t have nursing areas. Parking lots are not secluded places.

I hope to comply with the American Academy of Pediatrics recommendation to breastfeed for the first year. Studies have shown that breastfeeding gives a host of health benefits to both mothers and babies.

However, as I contemplate breastfeeding for at least nine more months, I have two wishes: 1) more places to nurse in private, and 2) wider acceptance of public nursing in this country.

As far as the first wish, once our culture recognizes that feeding babies benefits the common good, it makes sense that turnpike service plazas would have nursing rooms. Some places, such as IKEA, already have “baby care” rooms where mothers can feed their babies. We need more such places, so that nursing women who would like privacy don’t have to furtively feed their babies under blankets, in cars, and in dressing rooms.

As for the second wish, many other cultures consider nursing normal, not something to be hidden away. I wish both for legal change—laws such as Maryland’s and Philadelphia’s—and for social change. After an uproar, Burger King now allows breastfeeding in all its restaurants. I hope that someday we will see nursing simply as a wholesome way for babies to eat.

On the way to State College, I pulled off near Harrisburg and warily fed Ben in the deserted parking lot of a bank. But on the way back to Philadelphia, I was tired and the day was hot. When Ben fussed, I pulled off the turnpike into a service plaza and headed into Starbucks.

I was nervous as I sat in a corner and threw a blanket over my shoulder. (Ben promptly tried to pull it off—he can grab now.) But as I sipped my coffee and listened to classical music, I started to relax. I tensed again as a male employee neared, wiping down tables; I imagined he was biding his time until he came up and told me to stop.

But as I was packing up, the man smiled. “Your baby’s so quiet I hardly knew he was there,” he said. I smiled back, and turned to take my well-fed baby home.