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Breastfeeding Our Children Is A Deeply Healing, Political Act
How to support Black women through this nurturing practice
It was Wednesday, July 16, 2003, I was three days postpartum and standing naked in the shower, hot beads of water dancing along my skin and soothing my breasts that were engorged with human milk. I gazed down as droplets of breast milk began to leak like a faucet not quite turned off. The milk pooled lightly at my feet along with traces of blood and lochia from the interior of my womb whose contents were emptied 72 hours ago after 41 weeks of gestation. I sigh with a deep exhale… the baby is here, I still can’t believe it, and so is the milk! I gently massage my breasts to soften them a bit more before I exit the shower and prepare to nurse my son. Thanks to my mom, I’ve got my postpartum recovery ritual in motion and one of the things I look forward to is sitting in icy witch hazel pads to soothe my vulva and sore perineum. But what I love most about all of this newness, is holding my infant son close and breastfeeding.
Mommy quietly signals from the bedroom that the baby is stirring, she teaches me that it’s best to situate and latch him at the breast before missing his feeding cues or he may start to cry. So I hurry back to the bed wearing cotton drawstring pajama bottoms, with my breasts at full attention and fully…
