Latching Off

A breastfeeding journey.

I told my husband six months. Six months of breastfeeding was what I was committing to. This was before birth, before I met my baby, before, before, before. Looking back, it’s silly to set out any kind of parameters before meeting your child, but in pregnancy you’re still clinging to some kind of control. You think you have an idea of what’s to come, but nothing can prepare you for the colossal life shift that is about to take place.

Photo by Erika Matkovich

When my child was born, she latched on immediately. Nurses, doctors, everyone was impressed. She took to the breast like a fish to water. The nursing was constant. My nipples were dry, sore, cracked. Despite the good latch, our baby didn’t gain weight easily, so we supplemented with formula, weaning off after the first couple of weeks. By then, cluster feeding was the favourite pastime, and she’d spend hours attached to my nipple. She’d sleep while nursing, something quite common in newborns; then she’d wake up and nurse some more. My husband would feed me dinner by the forkful, as I sat on the couch, baby in my arms, feeling like the life was being sucked out of me.

Three months in, I hit a wall. I was either breastfeeding or pumping or trying to feed myself to keep my supply up. Our baby was still slow to gain weight, and I would knock back olive oil like it was Jägermeister, and I was still in my 20s. I kept pumping, even though it filled me with anxiety: the sound of the pump like nails on a chalkboard. Bottles filled with breast milk meant freedom: they meant that I could sleep more at night, or go out for a bit during the day, but our child didn’t like bottles. Looking back, I think it’s safe to say she loathed them, but we persisted. I did research on alternative formula’s, ordering ones from New Zealand and Germany. Neither of them worked: neither settled the colic or the reflux. She only wanted one thing, the real thing.

By January 2024, I had gone back to work and was still trying to pump and feed. We’d given up formula by that time, a hill I almost died on, and we were deep in survival mode, until one night I cleared off the bed in the guest room and brought my kiddo to bed with me. I tucked her into my side, c-curled my body around her, and we fell asleep. I woke up feeling refreshed for the first time in months. This became our new normal, something we’ve done for the majority of the last two years. Co-sleeping helped me fall in love with breastfeeding. When my child would wake up and cry, I had something to offer her. She would quickly fall back to sleep, and so would I, stroking her head, whispering sweet somethings into her ear.

Six months is when things clicked into place. Despite the fact that I was working, breastfeeding was something I looked forward to. It became a joke with a close friend: tired? Here’s a boob. Fussy? Here’s a boob. Hungry? Here’s a boob. It felt easy and good. The power of the boob compels them, we text back and forth.

Photo by Erika Matkovich

Since then, I’ve breastfed my child all over Europe. At the Picasso museum in Barcelona, where a kind security guard offered us a seat out of the way. At the Louvre, in restaurants in Paris, at the base of waterfalls in Iceland. I’ve taken great pride that I’ve been able to comfort her in this way, that falling asleep has been easy, that it’s been a constant in her life.

I’m so glad I didn’t cut off breastfeeding at six months, and I’m so grateful that our journey has lasted for almost thirty, but it’s time now, for me, to end it. My nipples hurt, and instead of it feeling like cozy comfort, it’s starting to feel like a chore. I want our journey to end well, to end on a high note. I don’t want to be resentful of the thing she loves so much, this “milka,” but weaning feels like a task that’s too big for me to take on. I don’t know where to start, I don’t know how to give up the (boobie) ghost. So, for now, we still breastfeed. I still offer “milka,” and she nurses to sleep on nights I do bedtime. It’s still a source of comfort for her and, perhaps, it still is for me, too. I want to end it, and yet I want to hold on to this age, and this connection, for as long as I can.

One day, in the not-so-distant future (I hope), this journey will come to an end, and I hope we’ll both be ready. As I write this, my breasts are filling up with milk, reminding both me and my body of this beautiful connection and journey. So, excuse me while I go feed my child, trying to enjoy these last few weeks or months that we have left.