As part of Guest Post Day, set up by @Erica, I’ve swapped my blog post with @iaingilmour whose own blog is an eclectic mix of life, love, music and sheds. I’m sure you’ll enjoy this – very enlightening. Please leave your comments for us, including – should we do this again? Happy Guest Post Day!

Breastfeeding Blog

I’ve always been a bit of a breast man myself.  Many a pleasant hour has been spent admiring my wife’s young roes and I must confess to the occasional fondle when her back wasn’t turned.  And then my wife chose to breastfeed.

To have such simple pleasures of the flesh denied to me was somewhat of a blow.  Yes I know and accept all the arguments for breast milk but seeing your child get free and frequent access to what previously cost you roses and chocolates can cause some paternal jealousy.  And even when you partner’s guard is down and you engage in the sort of activity that got her pregnant in the first place, there is that odd feeling of “This is a bit weird” before animal instincts (and relief) take over.  This is especially true when you get a strange taste in your mouth and you find yourself asking what it is despite your brain screaming at you to shut up.

I don’t wish to be crude, distasteful or to deliberately shock – I’m merely being honest about what went through my mind in the vague hope any male readers think to themselves, “Thank goodness it wasn’t just me” and let me know that I’m normal too.  Up to that moment, your partner’s breasts have always been sexual objects.  After that, the dual purpose can get some getting used to especially as the new one tends to dominate the old one for a while.

There are benefits and drawbacks to having a breast-fed child.  One of the major advantages, of course, is that you can’t do the midnight feed.  Naturally as a supportive partner, I wanted to make sure I stayed awake to keep my wife company ensuring sure she was comfortable and had a drink.  In reality I sleep through nearly everything: we now have empirical evidence that it takes something akin to a lorry exploding before I stir.

However there were times when I was needed mainly to do with teaching my children the sort of behaviours for which they will be told off in later life.  I will point out here that it was my wife who used to give our children marks for acoustics, timbre and reverberation whereas I would quizzically raise my eyebrows and say, “Pardon you!”.  Bizarrely, winding children brought my wife and I closer together as we played “Name that Tune” based on the rhythms I generated whilst patting him on the back: “Bolero” was a dead give away.  The other times I was needed have been to do with her sanity which, given the fact that she lives with me, is always close to breaking point.  I was essential in giving her a break from dealing with an unsettled, hungry and distressed child who could smell the milk he so desperately craved yet was in such a state he could not acquire it.

Having said all that, I began to give our children an evening feed thanks to that miracle of DIY plumbing known as the breast pump.  My wife got into the routine of expressing every morning making sure that her supply stayed fluid and allowing me to give him a bottle.  Mums are used to looking down at their child on their breast with a look of blissful peace on their faces but this is a viewpoint the father seldom gets.  Another source of jealousy can be that intimacy between mother and child and the chance to get as close is welcome.

Our eldest fortunately was not jealous of his brother being at that age where he accepted everything as normal.  “Whatcha doing?” in reference to feeds was answered, “Giving him some milk” to which he replied, “Mummy’s milk” before going through the contents of the fridge to point out the other varieties that were available.  He will either be a train spotter or quantity surveyor.  We were a bit unsure how he’d react to the breast pump but he was happy to point and say, “Pumping” before putting his fingers up to his forehead in the manner of bovine horns and mooing.  No idea who taught him that.

Luckily we get some teaching at the excellent antenatal class run by the NCT.  The session on breast feeding was one of the highlights of the course once I got over the obvious problem of where to look.  Not only did we get a thorough understanding of the processes involved but we also got to play with balloons.  For my wife especially this was an extremely emotional time as her medical history cast considerable doubt on her ability to breast feed.  The counsellor who ran the session spent an extra half hour after the class talking us through the various options.  This allowed my wife to express her genuine concerns not so much about the baby (we were both bottle fed so we know it works reasonably well) but about her feelings of guilt in case she couldn’t feed naturally.  We left the session feeling positive and supported.

Amazingly she was able to breast feed our first child for the first few months only supplementing with formula when it became obvious that he was not putting on weight as much as he should.  We decided that she was producing skimmed rather than full fat milk but it was still a small miracle that she was producing anything at all.  But even that changed with number two who put on weight like a trooper although his cries had a slight Cornish twang to them so I wondered if she had gone to the other extreme and was in fact producing clotted cream.

To conclude, what advice can I offer to the expectant father who is staring at his partner’s burgeoning chest with a mixture of excitement and trepidation?  Well for a start forget it – you ain’t going to get a look in for a few weeks if not months so get over it.  This doesn’t mean she’s gone off you.  In her eyes you are still that awesomely proportioned testosterone filled hunk-meister (my wife’s own words incidentally) but for now you’re second in line.  A request to rub in nipple cream is medically rather than sexually motivated.  Don’t take this personally and don’t make her feel guilty: she’s got enough going on in her head without you adding to the problems.  She still loves you, she still fancies you, she still wants to (insert your own euphemism here) with you so just be patient and watch a few Sandra Bullock movies instead.

Secondly, make sure she gets along to as many support groups as she can.  Like you she’s wondering if she’s normal and no matter how many times you tell her she is, she won’t believe you because you’re too close and it’s your job to be nice.  Contrary to popular belief breast feeding support groups do not consist of women sitting around in a circle crocheting breast pads: there’s a chance for her sound off about the whole feeding malarkey with people who have either gone through or are going through it themselves.  (I did offer to become a breast feeding supporter until I found out it didn’t mean standing behind women cupping their breasts in the manner of a human bra.)

Thirdly encourage her to trust her instincts and do what is right for her and for your child.  Apparently the first words in Dr Spock’s book are “Trust yourself”.  You can read as many books and articles as you like but none of them are about your family because your family is unique.  Like so many things about bringing up children you have to do what is best for you and don’t let anyone make you feel guilty because you’re doing something different.

And finally when you realise it’s a Victoria’s Secrets and not a M&S maternity bra she’s wearing, have a shave, brush your teeth and enjoy the reunion.

But for goodness sake don’t call her “Sandra” by mistake.