Raves and rants of a first-time mother, full-time journalist

I remember sniggering in the corner of the classroom, one in a bunch of 15-year-olds who loved all the naughty acronyms that were the order of the day. “Do you know what Bombay stands for?” asked my friend, looking at me knowingly. Before I could respond, she offered, “Both of my breasts are yours.” We both giggled uncontrollably, a bit unclear of the subtext but smart enough to realise it was wicked and imagining a future where it would make sense. A decade plus later, I am sitting in an arm chair, nursing my six-week baby. “Bombay”, I mumble to myself. I have been had. My daughter stares back unblinking, not amused or interested. No images of naughty necking cross my mind; it is a blank. Having a baby is a little like that. It is about wiping those slates dry, tearing some pages and starting from scratch.

“Have you started leaking colostrum?” asked a newbie mum conspiratorially just a few weeks before I was due. “It usually starts before the baby is born,” she explained. Eeks, I thought, no no no. What the hell is she talking about? When you are pregnant, you worry about labour, episiotomy and many other nameless tragedies, but breast feeding is not one of them. In fact, everyone skims the surface (it is milk after all). It is one of those things no one discusses and nobody tells you how hard it can be (for quite a number of women across the world I have since learnt). Yet here I was, taking deep breaths, eating spoon after spoon of ground methi seeds to "increase lactation" and staring at a mewling infant who had no idea that I was in a world of pain.

To go under the pump took on new meaning as I struggled with the suction shenanigans of a breast pump that held the promise of plenty. Fifteen minutes later I almost cried when I looked at the measly two ounces that had been dumped into the bottle. I thought of all the women who had issues of excess production, the ones who would say, “I start to leak when I hear a baby crying and it is time for my baby’s feed”. Or those who said breastfeeding was the most fulfilling experience they had had and weaning their child was torturous. I found myself trawling through the web, Google populated by searches that ran something like... Is it normal for there to be more milk in one breast? Or how do you know that your baby is getting enough breast milk? Funnily enough, all web literature seemed to suggest that relaxation was key to successful breastfeeding but how did one relax in such a situation?

I called a friend up, in tears. “This is just not working for me, she cries after every feed and I feel like she is constantly hungry. What should I do?” Whatever you do, don’t get her onto the bottle I was told. That will kick start a cycle of dependency and it will be all downhill from there. My kind doctor in Goa prescribed some medicine meant to increase lactation. I drank four litres of water every day. I took deep breaths. I woke up at night to nurse my baby, only to be woken an hour later with whining. Could she really be hungry again? As we oscillated between colic and hunger I knew I was out of my depth. “Feed her formula milk from a spoon if you must, but only after you have finished feeding her yourself and if she is still hungry,” said another doctor. How the hell was I supposed to know if she was hungry or sleepy or just a whinger? I hated being defenceless, a new mum, I hated my body for not delivering the way it should and I felt like an utter failure in the mommy department.

The first few weeks do that to you. Your body hurts in unknown places; your heart is heavy, and sleep, forever on your raving mind. As I waded through the weeks, armed with half-baked knowledge and little else, I chanced upon the world on lactation consultants. They actually have someone who only worries about boobs? I thought incredulously. By now I had made my peace with the boob-bottle routine. Yes, I had got my baby hooked onto both. I had heard incredible stories about people who exclusively fed till their children were 18 months old and I could not fathom how that would feel. I counted the days, waiting for S to reach the five-month mark when I could start her on solids; my return to work was even more eagerly awaited because it gave me a sense of purpose and freed me from the physical possibility of having to feed on demand. My husband said, “Forget the damn thing, just give her the bottle,” but by then it had become a mission, a battle of will, all linked to feelings of self worth and my ability to care for my child as a mother.

When I finally stopped nursing her, funnily enough there was no relief. It slipped out of my head within days and my daughter never cried or sought the comfort and security it supposedly gave her. Many months later and many tentative conversations later I realised that I was not alone. I was astonished that so many mothers had hated the experience, found it tenuous, struggled with supply issues and grappled with feelings of inadequacy, mostly heaped on them by peers.

The first few months of motherhood are many things but straightforward and simple is not one of them. As my body shrinks back to size, the memory of latching on and fullness distant and vague, I  wonder if I made too big a deal of breastfeeding. Just then I remember a night which was exceptionally combative and tedious and I shudder. I am glad I no longer need to rely on my body to feed my child, the Bombay acronym reserved for happier days that definitely don’t involve a hungry baby.