Making It Up As I Go Along

Chapter One "one, two, threelatch." I glanced around the room, quickly taking in the semicircle of five somewhat traumatized-looking women sitting cross-legged on a carpet that smelled of breast milk and lavender. Had their babies latched? It was hard to tell without raising questions as to my prenatal sexuality. If I even mentioned the word "partner" or even worse "no partner" (as was my case), my days at the Pump Station, the holy Mecca for the politically correct, socially conscious, newly nursing moms, would be over. I looked down at Halla. She was fast asleep, curled under my heavy breast as though still in my womb, totally unaware that she was supposed to be performing on cue. There was nothing in my thirty-eight years that had prepared me for the beauty of a sleeping child in the arms of its mother. It was the face of joy and peace, as though the baby was wrapped in a shroud of faith and its soul was dancing with the angels. Unfortunately for the church, it was the kind of faith that could not be taught, bought, or guilted into. "Okay, Saffrondid I get your name right?" The teacher, an exLeche League representative who probably pumped milk for her teenagers' lunch boxes, cocked her head to the side as she peered at my sleeping child. "You need to wake her up." Both hands on ample hips. "Now." "But look at her." I glanced at Halla, a name that a tribeswoman from northeast Sierra Leone had given her when she came up to me, patted my cramping belly, and announced that I was not sick with too much African beer, but with child. She pointed to my stomach and said "Halla" over and over again while she giggled. The irony was not lost on her that she, a woman who could neither add nor subtract, knew about my pregnancy before I did. The name meant unexpected gift. It described my baby perfectly. The Leche woman stomped over to where I sat quietly mesmerized by my child and squatted next to me. She was earthy, but fortunately still feminine enough. In other words, she was a kinder, gentler version of the in-your-face-breast-feeding dictator of the eighties; the short hair was a little longer, the chin hairs were tweezed, there was even an attempt at wispy bangs and light mascara; the Birkenstocks were trendy now and the soy latte, Starbucks. "Drag your nipple across her face." She peered down at my breast. "Stop when you get to her mouth and then tease her with it." I hoped she would go away. I could feel the heat rush to my cheeks as embarrassment pumped through my entire body. I had never liked being the center of attention, I preferred to be behind the camera, taking notes and telling other people's stories. GretchenI wasn't entirely sure that was her name, but she looked like a Gretchenstood behind me impatiently. "I'll be back." She gave me a nurselike pat of encouragement that was totally utilitarian and devoid of personal feeling. It was the same pat that the ob/gyn nurse had given me throughout my labor and recovery. Because I was doing it alone, she probably rubbed and patted my shoulders far more than she would have patted a woman whose husband was present, but I knew as I pushed and labored that she would forget me as soon as she took off her uniform, found her car keys, and made it to her poorly operating car in the farthest reaches of underground parking reserved for employees. "That's it." Gretchen walked in a circle behind the nursing mothers, bending down every so often to make certain that their child was indeed "on" properly. RLennon, M. T. is the author of 'Making It Up As I Go Along', published 0000 under ISBN 9781400081905 and ISBN 1400081904.