The Writing Mamas Daily Blog

Each day on the Writing Mamas Daily Blog, a different member will write about mothering.

If you're a mom then you've said these words, you've made these observations and you've lived these situations - 24/7.

And for that, you are a goddess.

Thursday, December 04, 2008


Just Who is Nursing Who?

The first time I held a baby to my breast to nurse, I felt a wet tugging at my nipple. My body was exhausted from the labor, but when collostrum flowed out into his ready little mouth, I sat there amazed.

Perhaps because I’d just endured a day and a half of labor, and perhaps because I was still reeling with thoughts of I have a baby boy—sweet mother of God! I have a baby boy! I looked down on his pink face too stunned to cry.

Looking down into his moist eyes as they took all of this new world in -- the lights, the shapes, the sounds no longer filtered through what I imagined to be the red canopy of his life for nine and a half months.

I cradled his hot body against mine, and skin-to-skin, thought nothing could be as simultaneously bizarre and natural as this.

When I nursed my babies during their first year, although it often occurred as a responsibility -- something to do in the middle of errands, dinner, phone calls -- I have to admit it was also a break. In fact, if I could arrange it, I usually took my baby, first, my boy, and a year later, my newborn girl, to my room, shut the door, dimmed the lights, and leaned back, cradling them against my bare skin.

Sometimes their hands were chilly, gripping my warm skin a few inches below my armpits, sending tingles into that hollow area; sometimes their nails were too long, scratching the ridged texture of my hardened areola; sometimes their hands were searching, finding my necklace, my chin, my lips, and resting on my cheek; but mostly I heard their sighs and their gulps and closed my eyes with the strange realization that I wasn’t exactly sure just who was nursing who.

By Anjie Reynolds

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This is wonderful! I love it. You touch on so many emotions & feelings that come with nursing. I loved nursing & miss it too.

I loved having the option of going away with each of my three babies for time to lay back & relax.

How I miss that rush of hormones when the let down came.

Really, you turned this piece into a beauty Anj. Your descriptive style works so well for those of us who have never nursed a baby - without scaring us off:-) A great blend of love and quiet observation, with a touch of humor. I love it.
Brava chica!

I loved it, you truly have a way with words. Thanks for sharing!
So beautifully written.

Another awesome essay! You put me there, as you do every time! You rock Anj!
How beautiful. I felt a rush of warmth reading this. My nursing days are long over but you captured the feeling so well. Thank you.
This brought tears to my eyes. I recently weaned my second (and last) child as he was about to turn two. How I miss those times with both of my children... though sometimes when he can't sleep he puts his fingers on my chin or touches my cheek and I can't help but feel he is comforted with his memories too.
So beautiful it makes me ache. I love your writing.

I nursed in an era when the norm was to bottle feed. I can remember hiding in closets when I was out. I cheered when things changed and all my girls were free to nurse discreetly but publically.
I share your feelings and herald your witing of them.
I once wrote, " The only time I've every felt that I
was giving all I had to give and receiving all I could receive was when I was nursing". I think my babies felt the same. We were one at that moment.
When I nursed by last child for the last time I'm sure I did it more for myself than for him and then went back for another last time the next morning. Each time was a great moment of life.
In later years when I lost my left breast to breast cancer I cheerfully remarked, "I'm lucky I had my breast when I most needed them?, and I still think I was lucky to be allowed to beast feed all five of my children.
Thank you for writing all so beautifully.
Ruth Scott
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