Motherhood Rant #103 “My Body and My Baby” By: Margaret Whitehair, 2025

I went on a run when I was about 6 weeks pregnant, and came home complaining about my back. My husband asked what was wrong, I told him I was very awkwardly walk-hop-jogging, holding my belly, because I was worried the baby would “fall out.” Mind you, I am by any measure a well-educated woman, with years of working with kids and mothers, and babysitting, and childcare, who has read all the “What to Expect books,” and the “How to be a good mother” books.

We laughed at how absurd it was that I was running funny to make sure my baby was “Okay in there”, so he wouldn’t “fall out.” Somewhere between not wanting him to “fall out” and hoping I could “push him out naturally” there was some serious processing that was needed.

I name my education and the fact that I am female-bodied because it did not matter. It did not matter that I was inherently born with a uterus and had breasts and could get pregnant, and I wanted to be a mom. It didn’t matter that I had planned this with my consenting and willing husband so that we purposely made this happen. I still felt like I did not know what I was doing. 

I did prenatal yoga, I did prenatal meditation, and self-hypnosis. I would repeat in Goddess pose, “My body and my baby and I want a vaginal delivery.”  

My body and I were talking to each other, but something about the “natural” aspect was not feeling very natural. I was worried. When doing the scans, the nurses would say, “Oh, that is a big baby!” My husband is 6’3.” I am 5’2.” No surprise there. 

“That is a big baby.” 

“You are carrying him so well.” 

I gained 40 lbs? That is good, right? 

I am considered a geriatric pregnancy? Oh,  38 is geriatric? Okay. 

Big baby equals–subtle foreshadowing–you will have to have a c-section.

I had the c-section at 4:00 am. I was lying flat on the operating table, completely naked, with nurses and providers hovering over me. All I could see was their eyes. I was fully conscious and did not know anyone’s name. They had not introduced themselves by name to me before meeting my bulging belly, shaved vagina, and vulnerable desire to meet my baby. I felt like a slab of meat. I felt like a heffer.

Whoever said to you that nursing is easy has not done it. 

Breastfeeding Mother

By: Margaret Whitehair

Pencil, paint markers, watercolor, paper 2015

The idea that this very natural thing we are meant to do as women, or mothers, is easy, is a lie.

My son would not latch right away. The nurse would shove his little face into my engorged boob with an intensity and aggression that bothered my newly emerged mama bear mother spirit. He wanted to nurse. I wanted to nurse. He was hungry. I was desperate to satisfy his needs. In my post-c-section haze, after 24 hours of labor in the hospital, with only a popsicle in my system, I wanted to feel him close and to be good enough. 

After the blue-gloved rough-handling nurse pushed him into my boob another ten times, they agreed we would have to supplement. She could have been a winged angel from heaven who was trying to get my son to nurse, motivated only by pure love, and I would have still wanted to chop her head off.

She had gorilla hands on his delicate little head.

Supplement?? Ok, so I feed him formula, and then put him on the boob? Dad can help? Ok, that is great. But why can't he latch on? My nipple shape. Oh.

“Yes, this is hard because you have inverted nipples.” My inverted what?

We were in a daze in the hospital for three glorious days of being completely fed and cocooned, both in love with our son, and each other. But I also felt like something was not right. Why was feeding my son from my milk-filled breast so hard? Why did I not know that I had inverted nipples? Why did they have to shove him into me so firmly? 

I was desperate, thinking I was not doing this correctly or that something was wrong with me. With my nipples, now it was confirmed. 

On the last day at the hospital, a new lactation consultant visited us. I already had lots of hesitation due to the heavy-handed, blue-gloved gorilla hands lady who had repeatedly pressed his little perfect face into my engorged boob pillow breasts.

But, this one, she was wonderful. I am still not sure if she was real. 

She was gentle. She was warm, glorious, kind. She placed his little sweet face on my breast. She spoke to me gently. She reassured me that everything was okay, that he would learn, that my nipple would pop out. You heard correctly, my nipple would adjust.

The feeding schedule was as follows:

Breastfeed the baby every 3 hours for 20 minutes.

After the 20 minutes, hand him over to Dad. He will give him a bottle of formula to supplement, while you pump for 20 minutes (10 or so on each boob). 

Oh, and you need this plastic nipple for nursing. 

Don’t worry, it won't impact your milk supply (wink wink). Depending on who you talk to, the plastic nipple shield can impact your milk production. Milk production, Yes, you are now the cow. Officially you can now start to measure your worth by how many ounces your dear body can produce of this golden elixir of white cells.

All the books warn you of confusing the baby’s latch with the nipple, or the bottle, or going back and forth. They don't get into confusing the mom about her capability to do this “natural easy thing.” The natural easy birthing, slash “ you are now the charcuterie plate”. Or the natural and easy nursing, a.k.a. becoming the cow. 

No one warns you. 

I want to warn you. Not to scare you, but to do what a good friend does, prepare you and protect you from not being prepared. I want to inform you. \

Let me break down the  nursing math: 

This process would take one hour and forty-five minutes to complete. 

And then one hour and forty-five minutes later, we would repeat.

For TWO weeks. We were up every three hours, day and night, trying to get his little body to gain weight so we could stop supplementing, and I could do what my body was meant to do. 

On top of that, our son was what you call a grazer, meaning he took his time and fell asleep while at the breast. I would have to wake him up gently by removing his warm layers of clothing and coaxing him into nursing. Naturally, of course, with the added plastic nipple suctioned into my very achy and sore and, at times, bloody nipples. 

The lactation angel came to our house two weeks later to weigh his lanky, long, and perfectly-shaped pale body. He had gained enough weight so we could stop supplementing. What a success. Now we could get into “the real nursing.” 

I thought we already had. 

I am grateful for the one friend who dared to share the truth of her experience of nursing and all of the other mystified “natural processes” we’re supposed to intuitively know how to do as new mothers. She helped me set some realistic expectations. This here, is my gift to you, my dears. 

P.S. I am completely grateful I was able to get pregnant, have a healthy child, was able to get the appropriate care, and deliver the baby safely. I do not take one day of being a mother for granted. It is my favorite and most challenging role. This is by no means a complaint about being a mother or having the ability to have children and nurse, etc. I also believe in having the right to choose and respect for women’s bodies and rights. Also, for your comfort, I had a second baby two years later. But that is a whole other story.