Please Laugh Over Spilled Milk
Nearly three years ago, I sat on the floor of a musty church library, my newborn son stretched out on an overly cheery polka-dotted blanket in front of me. A dozen other new moms joined me in a circle with their babies—each of us exhausted and more than a bit mystified that we had been allowed to remove such fragile creatures from hospital premises.
Thrown together by fate (our children were all born within the same timeframe at the same hospital), we formed “New Mothers Group #13” and met once a week for sanity checks and advice. (I didn’t notice the lucky number of the group until right this second when I typed it. Huh.)
Like many support groups, we bonded by learning to cope with a common enemy—breastfeeding.
Yes, breastfeeding was the unpredictable foe in those early days of motherhood as we adapted to the role of round-the-clock milkmaid and began to measure our self worth by the ounce.
On August 19, 2011
