The Womanly Art

You make me feel like a natural woman . . .

                                    - Carole King

She trusted nature, this new mother, but now it betrayed her. Where was the serene nature of yesterday, when she had given miraculous birth to her daughter? This could not be natural, this weariness and defeat that she felt now, holding her wailing baby futilely to her breast. And whose breasts were these, anyway? - these hot, throbbing mountains with skin shiny and stretched, greedily hoarding her baby's milk. Even her breasts betrayed her.

Mary had insisted on a natural birth - no puncturing the membranes, no epidural, no episiotomy. She had drawn strength from the billions of mothers across time, who had given birth to billions of people on the planet; it was the most natural thing in the world. Another source of strength was the instructor of the natural birth class that Mary had attended with her husband, Paul. Ulla was a Nature Mother with unshaven legs and a Swedish accent who spoke about birth with awe. When Ulla pushed a rubber ball through a hand-knitted, woolen "cervix" to demonstrate the birthing process she spoke in hushed tones: "When you feel your body working to push the baby out, do not think of this as pain that you would wish away. Think of your muscles, working hard like you are running a marathon, and thank them for the work they are doing to bring your baby to you." Mary soaked up every Swedish-tinged word that Ulla spoke. Ulla spoke about the ecstasy of breastfeeding but she cautioned about possible sore nipples and temporary engorgement when the milk first comes in. As Ulla suggested, Mary read The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding and rubbed her nipples with a coarse towel. She was ready.

"Shhh, come on, you can do it Kelsey. Let's try again," coaxed Mary. Anxiously she held the baby to her tender, dripping nipple and again Kelsey sucked at the nipple but she couldn't latch on (How can you suck on a basketball?). She got no more than a teasing drop before she wailed her distress again. Mary dropped her head back on the couch and gave in to weariness and despair. I'll just sit here and ooze, she thought. Blood oozed from her uterus, milk oozed from her cracked breasts, tears oozed from her eyes; she wallowed in the sad, wet drippiness of it all. This did not fit the soft bliss and contentment in the rocking chair that Mary had imagined for the two of them.

The two of them? And where then, was Paul - her husband, her mate, her life partner? Where in the Hell was Paul? They had been home from the hospital for only a few hours when Paul said he had to rush over to his bicycle business for "just a bit." More betrayal. Mary added resentment and anger to her growing pile of emotional doom.

Hours passed. Breasts grew and dripped. Baby dozed and wailed, dozed and wailed. Mary cooed and coaxed and cried. When the doorbell rang Mary thought it would be the nurse from the hospital, making a routine home visit. She opened the door to admit Marjorie Pyle, RN.

"Hello Mary," she beamed. "How are you and Kelsey doing?"

"All right, but my milk has come in and I'm having trouble breast feeding . . . . I thought it would come more naturally."

Marjorie chuckled, merry but sympathetic, through her teeth with a hissing sound: "Hss, hss, hss, hss . . . It's natural, but sometimes nature can be cruel and painful. Let's have a look."

Mary lifted her shirt to reveal her natural twin volcanoes, boiling and pushing, ready to erupt. Marjorie clucked. "Well at least you have plenty of milk. Hss, hss, hss. Your breasts are engorged - I'd love to have a picture of them for my slide collection - so you're going to have to help Kelsey latch on."

She showed Mary how to push back on her breast - "Owwwww" - while squeezing the areola between two fingers, the way some people hold a cigarette, to create some room around the nipple. Mary winced and looked away as she held Kelsey to her breast. Kelsey latched on and began sucking expertly, the first meal of her tiny life. Tears of pain and joy trickled down Mary's cheeks.

Marjorie packed her bag to go. "I'll be back tomorrow to check on you, and I'll bring my camera . . . . I'll need you to sign a model's release form."

"Sure. Maybe it'll be the start of a new career for me. Thank you, Marjorie."

"Hss, hss, hss. See you tomorrow . . . . Hey, it looks like Paul's home."