“I mean, it’s not like you need them,” she told me while I was holding six-week-old Aubrey and still crying every time I made a bottle.
Aubrey was quiet as we drove to the meeting. She was ridiculously cute in her lavender overalls and white shirt. As we made our way out of the suburbs and toward the La Lait meeting in the hip part of town that was inhabited by college students, organic grocery stores and independently owned coffee shops, I reflected on how I found myself in this utterly ridiculous predicament. Technically, I never lied. My exact words at the café were “I’m not going anywhere. Breastfeeding is natural. It’s my right.” All of those statements are true. I wasn’t going anywhere. Breastfeeding is totally natural. And it was my right. I just wasn’t doing it.
They’re the ones who assumed I was breastfeeding. If I’d corrected them in the café in front of that wretched woman I would have hurt the movement.
My heart began to race as I pulled into the community co-op parking lot. It was adjacent to a public garden with a hand-painted sign that read, “Come one, plant all.” A few people, a young woman in a long patchwork skirt with a toddler strapped to her back, a man with an elaborate beard and wearing denim shorts, and an older woman wearing a mechanic-style jumpsuit, were harvesting the land.
I sat in the car for a few moments with my hands on the steering wheel. “I can’t pretend to breastfeed Aubrey,” I said aloud. “That’s insane. It’s deranged. Who does that?” I peeked at Aubrey in the rearview mirror. She gummed on a silicone teether in the shape of a giraffe. I’d received three of them at my baby shower. Apparently they were the hot must-have for moms. As I stared into her sweet brown eyes, I knew what I had to do.
Opening the door gingerly, I walked to her side of the car. I grabbed the diaper bag and undid her straps. With Aubrey on my hip and the diaper bag (with a bottle hidden in a tangled mess of pacifiers, toys and changes of clothes), we made our way toward the door.
“I’m not going to pretend to do anything,” I decided. “I’m just going to show up to the meeting I was invited to.” Anyway, I thought, who says it’s for breastfeeders only?
A sign on the door in swirly script read: Welcome to La Lait—A Safe Haven for Breastfeeding Mothers.
Oh.
11 A.M.
Breast milk isn’t just wonderful for children. I pump and feed for premature shelter puppies once a month.
—Emily Walker, Motherhood Better
Lola, the outspoken redhead from the café, was waiting for me in the lobby of the co-op when I walked in.
She wore her two-year-old son, Donovan, in one of those woven wraps that are way more expensive than they look. Maybe she’d be able to teach me how to wrap Aubrey. That is, if she can’t tell just by looking at me that my girls are as dry as a bone.
“Ashley!” she squealed as she glided over to me. “You made it!”
She reached out and grabbed me into her arms, squishing Donovan against my chest. She held my arms.
“The ladies are so excited to meet you.”
I forced myself to smile and hoped that I wasn’t visibly shaking. “I’m...so excited to meet them, too!” Inside, I could hear a voice saying, “What are you doing, Ashley? Run! Run now!”
Lola tickled Ashley’s cheek. She giggled. “We’ve got to get you a wrap, little missy! Mommy’s arms are probably so tired!” She put a hand on my shoulder. “I have a spare in my car, if you want I can...”
I waved my hands wildly. I couldn’t let her see that I have no idea how to use those contraptions. Not even seventeen YouTube videos and a ten-pound bag of flour as a baby standin could teach me.
Lola grinned. “Ah, you’re one of those ‘baby in arms’ mommies. Old school. I love it.”
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled as if I had any idea what she was talking about.
Lola led me down the hall, past a Tai Chi class for elders and a pottery class for the recently divorced, to a door with a poster of a woman tandem nursing (that means two babies—I learned that last night) her twins. The caption above her head read, I make milk. What’s your superpower?
“Apparently, it’s lying my way into mom groups,” I said under my breath.
“What’s that?” asked Lola.
“Oh, nothing! I just can’t wait to say hello,” I lied.
Lola put one hand on the door handle. “Ready to meet your fans?”
“Fans?” Before I could answer or sprint to my car, she opened the door and pushed me in front of her.
I’d decided to keep a low profile at the meeting. I wouldn’t tell anyone what had happened; I’d just make a fresh start based on truth. That plan went out the window the minute Lola spoke.
“Our hero was arrived!” Lola practically yelled and the fifteen-plus women sitting in a semicircle on a large red rug with blankets and pillows broke out into applause. The ones without babies on their breasts even stood up to give me a standing ovation.
I died.
“It’s so great to meet you! You are so brave. Can I interview you for my blog about normalizing breastfeeding?” said a bubbly brunette with thick glasses who turned out to be Nina, mom to six-month-old twins, Finch and Aiden.
“I’m, um, thank you, maybe,” was my eloquent response.
I sat down with Aubrey, who was practically buzzing at the excitement. Everyone was staring at me, beaming as if I were some kind of lactating Joan of Arc.
Lola took her place among the moms and sat on her knees. “Hi, everyone! I want to formally introduce Ashley Keller, mom to Aubrey! She’s the amazing milk warrior I met at the café yesterday. She stood up to ignorance and we’re so happy to have her as part of our group.”
Everyone clapped again and I did my best to conjure invisibility. This was a mistake, boomed in my head, over and over.
“Ashley, would you like to say a few words?”
I froze. Maybe now was the time for me to speak up and just tell everyone what had happened. Surely they’d understand, I thought. It’s such a simple misunderstanding. If I told them now, maybe we could all laugh about it and I could be the Le Lait version of a football waterboy and make sure everyone stays hydrated while they nurse.
But as I looked around the room of smiling faces, hair as disheveled as mine, shirts with mysterious white, filmy, damp stains, eyes with dark bags under them, babies squirming around, I knew that these were my people. I know it sounds crazy, but besides the tiny fact that my diaper bag contains a bottle and powder that I’m pretty sure would leave them recoiling in disgust, we’re pretty much the same.
“Thank you so much for having me today,” I heard come out of my mouth. “It’s time people accepted breastfeeding as normal and natural.”
They clapped.
What have I done?
Thursday, February 21, 1 P.M.