Lactation Education: Age Four

My friend Ana and her four-year-old daughter, Lucy, visit us every week. We share food, the kids play with toys, and Ana and I always end up talking about breastfeeding at some point. Usually Ana and Lucy stay long enough that eventually Jacob wants to nurse, even though these days he mostly just likes to crawl about and play when we have guests over. Still, Lucy has seen me using the supplemental nursing system fairly frequently. Her Mom told me this story the other day:

At home, Lucy found a tube somewhere-or-other, and put the end of it in a bottle. Then she placed the other end of the tube next to her nipple, and proceeded to nurse her doll. Her Mom asked, "Oh, are you feeding your baby with an SNS?"
"Yes, I don't have enough oppai, so I'm giving my baby oppai but there's pumped milk in the bottle, too, see?"
I have no doubt that if Lucy has her own children, it will be second nature to her to breastfeed them. If she turns out to be one of the very few people who truly cannot make enough milk, she'll know that by using a supplemental nursing system she can feed her baby at her breast and maintain a satisfying nursing relationship. Even that will be second nature to her, too. And, of course, she'll know to ask her nursing friends if they might be able to donate some pumped milk for her baby.
This is why we must defend not only the right to nurse in public, but also the right of our children to see all kinds of people nursing in public.
*oppai is the term Lucy uses for nursing. It comes from the Japanese.

Time to Breastfeed Outdoors Again

Baby's first winter presented special challenges..

All winter long in our frigid city I've been timing my walks with Jacob and my dog ever so carefully. I make sure the baby is well fed just before I start out, and I never walk for more than an hour. Usually Jacob falls asleep, snuggled comfortably against my chest in a cloth carrier and wrapped in a massive winter coat that fits around both of us. Bringing along donated breast milk and feeding using the supplemental nursing system just isn't practical in minus twenty. Thankfully I've only rarely misjudged our outings and had to rush home with a hungry, crying baby a very few times.

These last few days it's been warm enough to sit down and nurse leisurely outside again. Yesterday Jacob and I spent the afternoon in our yard looking at butterflies, cuddling, and breastfeeding as desired. We live in the middle of the city, in between one neighbour who refuses to speak to us, and a family on our other side who is just thrilled with Jacob. At first I was a little self-conscious to open my shirt outside once again after a whole winter spent bundled up, but then I felt the warm sun on my back and smelled the grass beginning to dry out, and knew that my son, too, should enjoy all this - and why not while he ate?

Of course there are reasonable limits to where I'll nurse this summer, the same as last. I won't breastfeed Jacob on an isolated park bench with, say, just a few strangers nearby. I won't nurse him down by the river where the drunks reside. But I will breastfeed my baby anywhere that I think it is physically safe to do so - at the beach with other families around, at the Winnipeg Folk Festival, in my own back yard, at the playground... If others don't like it, they can shut their eyes and listen to the birds, smell the leaves in the trees, and feel the wind in their hair. That ought to be enough for anyone.

Last September I nursed Jacob at Calgary's Spruce Meadows while watching Team Canada take its victory lap. The crowd was far too busy enjoying the horses to care that we might have been doing anything out of the ordinary.

Privacy

Some have wondered why the names on this blog have been changed, and, well, the answer is MY SON! I have made the choice to be a queer, breastfeeding activist - I am not only comfortable with this, I love it. It is my passion. My child, however, must be allowed to make his own decisions regarding how open he wants to be about his life. I don't want my writing to follow him around wherever he goes. For now and for many years to come, he will simply be a boy with two loving parents. I believe this is his right.

All of our friends and family know that I am transgender and that I birthed our baby. They are all fine with it. We will try to raise our boy with honesty and integrity. He will grow up understanding where he came from, but we will also have to teach him to guard his own privacy in some situations for his own safety.

This blog is important to me because I hope it will help make the world a better place for our child, and others like him, to live in. Awareness of transgender lives increases every time someone puts him or herself out there in some way. Because Thomas Beatie discussed his transgender pregnancy on Oprah, some of my friends were already familiar with what we were up to when we announced our own pregnancy. And little by little it gets better, right?

Why I Oughta

It's been about 24 hours since my encounter with the fanatic on the airplane, and her words are still bumping around in my head: "Why are you breastfeeding this baby?"

And, finally, I have thought of a dozen answers far snappier than the honest, straightforward one I gave her.

1. Because he is hungry.
2. Because he finds it comforting.
3. Because I want to.
4. Because he is my baby.
5. Because I am his parent.
6. Because he wants me to.
7. Because my body makes a small but precious amount of the best food in the world for him, including antibodies that will protect him from YOUR nasty germs.
8. Because he is in a strange place.
9. Because he is scared.
10. Because his ears are hurting him.
11. Because it is good for his jaw development.
12. Because I love him.

I'll guess I'll save these up for next time around.

Nursing in flight

Today I boarded a flight with my ten month old son, a cooler packed with donated breast milk, a ton of fascinating finger foods and a few favourite toys. After that all I could do was hope. Flying with a baby is rarely easy, but being the only adult responsible for that baby is a genuine challenge. Ahead of time I started to wonder about things like how I would answer a call of nature holding a wriggling almost-toddler in one of those tiny airplane bathrooms. And how on earth would I entertain someone, solely in my lap, whose only mission these days is to conquer the universe on his hands and knees?

Mostly we managed ok. Jacob fought sleep like his life depended on it, but we found a nice woman to talk to for a while. She asked if I had bottles or a soother with me. "Well, no, that's a bit complicated..." I said.

"Everybody's complicated. We're complicated too!"

Well, ok. She seemed decent enough. I explained all about being transgender and breastfeeding Jacob donated milk, etc. etc. She thought everything was fantastic. Jacob got a little calmer. "Maybe Daddy has a nice cookie or something for you," she said.

Cookie? Sugar for my ten month old? Not a chance. But I did have some cut-up grapes. I got them out and Jacob enjoyed picking them up himself and chowing down on them. Then he gagged a little. He started to spit up the half-grape when the lady vigorously wacked him on the back and simultaneously jammed her finger down his throat, shouting, "he's choking!"

"Stop that! No, he's not! He's crying - that means his airway is not blocked."

Jacob screamed, and screamed some more, I believe at this insult of having a strange lady's finger shoved into his mouth. I took him to the back of the plane and held him until he cooled down a bit. Then I nursed him to sleep, finally, and enjoyed a few pages of a book and a sandwich for myself.

I felt the plane starting to descend so I immediately got out the supplementary nursing system. If I had only one goal on this flight, it was to nurse during take-off and landing to help Jacob relieve the pressure in his ears. He nursed in his sleep for about half of the descent. I watched the mountains become clearer through my window. It was good to be going back to Vancouver, where I was born.

Suddenly Jacob came off and started to cry, and I could not convince him to latch back on. The pilot turned on the seatbelt sign, so we were stuck. I offered him a drink of water from a cup but he only turned his head away and screamed louder. Desperate to get him to swallow, I took the tube out of the bottle of milk and tried to get him to suck on the plastic nipple to no avail. He started to do that horrible sobbing, gasping cry that twists my own insides in knots.

"Don't you have a bottle or a soother or something for that baby?" Genius. Wow! Why hadn't I thought of those things? I explained to this thoughtful woman a few rows up that I had tried but he wasn't willing to take anything in his mouth. She frowned and informed me that his ears were probably hurting.

We landed, and then Jacob latched on. Suck, swallow, suck, suck, swallow, hiccup, suck, suck, swallow. He calmed down.

The woman from a few rows forward pushed her way past a few people to stand right in front of me. "Why are you breastfeeding this baby?"

I couldn't tell if she was accusatory or just curious. I glanced around and reminded myself that I was on a crowded airplane. She couldn't do anything physically dangerous to us here. I decided to be frank with her. "I'm transgendered, I birthed my baby myself, and I breastfeed him."

"Well, he needs a real boob, MAN. Come on!"

"No, I actually do make a little bit of milk for him, and the rest he gets through this." I held up the SNS.

"You're going to wreck his ears doing this, flying with him like this. He needs an actual boob. It's about time someone told you this."

I made what I thought was a rather generous offer to squirt some milk in her face, but she declined. I actually could have done it; I'd only managed to latch Jacob onto one side, so my other side was relatively full.

I could see her revving up, so I said, "I hope you have a good vacation. Take care."

"You too. You know, Jesus loves you. I hope you know that."

Ugh. I couldn't go anywhere since the door to the plane wasn't open yet and nobody was moving. I ignored her as best I could and tried to chat with the guy in front of me, who rolled his eyes at my adversary.

After she left, I packed up my things and cried along with Jacob whose ears were probably still sore. I wish someone could teach me how to grow a thicker skin. I'll need it to keep on being this parent raising this child. I'm astonished that this was the first time I've been directly confronted by a stranger for breastfeeding my baby. I've been incredibly lucky so far, but still, it hurt me to hear this woman telling me that I'm failing as a parent and damaging my baby.

At the luggage belt, the man who'd sat in front of me came up to me, looking serious. "Don't you let anyone keep the joy of this baby from you," he said. And then he repeated it. "Don't let anyone keep the joy of this baby from you."

Another passenger approached me to say that I have a beautiful child. I will try to keep these well-wishers in mind while I do my best to develop the protective hide of an elephant.

Nursing in Public

I haven't written in a while because the whole family has been sick with colds and nasty things. The illnesses have been pretty awful, but they did provide interesting opportunities to breastfeed publicly while waiting around in doctor's offices!

Today I fed Jacob immediately before leaving home for the walk-in clinic down the street, but after forty-five minutes of waiting perfectly quietly, he started to get antsy. I struck up a conversation with the woman sitting across from me, distracting him and biding myself some time. She mentioned that she has twin baby boys, seven months old. We compared notes for a while, and she said she breastfed them until six months and then gave up out of sheer exhaustion. I applauded her effort, congratulating her on breastfeeding through a very important period in her sons' lives.

Then she mentioned that she always pumped for them. I commiserated, "Oh, that is difficult. Were they born premature?"

"No, they got to full term. 37 weeks to the day."

"That's fantastic! Great job." But I was still wondering. "Did they have trouble latching then?"

"No, I never tried. It's the same way I did it with the first one. I just pumped. That way somebody else can do the feedings too. It takes so much time to pump though."

Bizarre! She thought it was easier to pump than to breastfeed, so that somebody else could feed them too? What about getting up to do the pumping, getting up to feed the babies, cleaning the pumping equipment, cleaning the bottles? And to miss the closeness of a breastfeeding relationship! I guess she never considered doing some feeding at the breast and then pumping some so that her husband could feed the boys. I am so sorry for this woman - I don't think she knows what she missed.

Anyway, soon enough Jacob just had to eat, so I fed him. Right there. About two feet away from old ladies, and young ladies, and scruffy men, and big fat men, and the receptionists. And they mostly frowned and looked away. The ones who had been smiling at Jacob before didn't smile at him anymore once we were done nursing. But none of them dared say anything. I love it. If anyone questioned what I was doing, I planned to ask if they would prefer for him to cry, for the pleasure of the whole waiting room. One way or another, we will assault your senses, either visual or auditory. It is much easier to look the other way than to shut off your ears. I suppose they figured as much.

A friendly new woman came in, who hadn't seen me breastfeeding. She asked how old he was. I told her, and she mentioned she has a six month old. I told her we had a trip coming up and I was wondering how to make it go smoothly for my little boo.

"Oh, make sure you get onto the plane with him on an empty stomach because he'll need to drink a whole bottle on the way up and a whole one on the way down to help his ears adjust to the pressure changes."

"He's still breastfed. We'll make sure he eats."

"Wow, really? Still breastfed? Mined weaned herself at four months."

How does a baby wean herself at four months? Did she really decide to commit suicide? Stop eating her available liquid food before she would be able to chew and swallow even rather soft solid foods? I can't imagine an infant so young having a death wish like that. I know that somehow there was a communication failure, but I'm sure that this baby didn't want to wean herself.

When I got in to see the doctor, he tried very hard to be respectful. "Well, hello Dad! How are you today?" He looked at the chart. "I mean, Mom!! How are you?"

"No, it's Dad," I said.

"But why does your chart have an F on it?"

Here we go again, I thought. "Because I'm transgendered. I was born female, transitioned to male by taking hormones. I identify as male. But my birth province won't change my ID unless I get a complete ovariohysterectomy. It sucks."

"Well, would you like me to change it in your file here?"

I thought about this for a minute. It was a kind offer.

"No, probably better not, because my government health card still says F. It would mess up your system and they'd likely decide I'm not insured or something."

He nodded sympathetically. "So, what's up?" And we got down to business.

He's Local

Sometimes I am pretty cavalier about my unusual family situation. I can find myself telling some stranger on the street, "oh, no, my partner is a man, my husband. I don't have a wife. I'm actually transgender. I birthed my baby myself, and I can even breastfeed him some. Great, isn't it?"

If I have plenty of time, and I feel safe, I'm pretty willing to explain what we've done. Most people respond very well, with mild curiosity or amusement. Sometimes though, it just isn't the right moment to get into explanations about how transgender folks give birth. One evening Jacob had just fallen asleep in a coffee shop and we needed to get going when somebody asked us if we used a surrogate. Neither Ian nor I like to lie about anything, so we kind of mumbled something confusing yet agreeable and walked away. "Ah, yes, isn't it wonderful that people can do that nowadays? Well, we have to go!"

On another occasion we were eating at our favourite restaurant in Winnipeg, a small, family-run Ethiopian joint downtown. We had our wedding dinner there, and we love the friendly staff. However, communication is a considerable challenge due to the language barrier. I thought I'd booked the dinner only to find out a week before our wedding that the restaurant had no record of the event. Luckily, they hadn't booked anything else either, so I simply booked again, this time in person. The actual day went well except for that there had been a misunderstanding over the number of guests, and there weren't enough chairs for everyone. Then the restaurant Momma forgot to include samosas on our bill and we didn't notice either. Weeks later, she mentioned it to us while her son pleaded with her to forget about it. We apologized and paid for what we'd had.

So, after all this, Ian and I both instinctively felt that there was no way we could successfully explain the origin of our child, even though I'm sure the well-meaning restaurant owner would have been delighted to hear all about it. She cooed over Jacob for a good five minutes. Then she asked, "So, you get him in Canada, then? Or international?"

She was assuming that Jacob was adopted. Ian responded quickly, saying, "yes, he is a local Winnipeg boy!"

The restaurant Momma approved heartily. "Very good, very good," she said. "Have a good night! See you again soon!"

I vowed that the next time I saw her son with his much better grasp of English, I'd explain everything to him and ask him to tell his mother in their language.