Play Ball

Alexandra K. Bush

"Play BALL!" It was the Little League T-ball All Stars game. I was number 17--the littlest on the team and the last to bat. I glanced into the stands, and was reassured to see my mother smiling at me and nursing my baby sister.

The year my sister was born we lived in San Diego, just one block from the Pacific Ocean. I remember "duck walking," squatting in the sand with my mother walking up and down the beach. Her pregnant belly seemed to help her balance with ease, while I awkwardly tried to copy her.

It was a rainy Monday morning when my Dad woke me up to announce I had a new sister--Bahne. Her name meant prayer. She was born at home as I slept. I didn't understand why I still had to go to my morning Kindergarten class. Shouldn't a new little sister be reason enough to take a holiday?

I don't remember my mother talking to me about childbirth or breastfeeding, but there is truth in the poetry of "Children Learn What They Live." When I was pregnant with my first child I sought out a midwife and planned to breastfeed. It wasn't social pressure or parenting books, but my mother's example of how to nurture a child that made me assume I would nurse my babies.

In spite of a strong start, I still struggled with breastfeeding. I couldn't seem to maintain an adequate milk supply. My mother's quiet suggestions went in one ear and out the other. I weaned my first two babies much earlier than planned. It was a struggle to feel like I "failed" at something I assumed would come naturally. Now I wish I had been more attentive to the advice my mother tried to share.

In the spring, my sister Bahne gave birth to a daughter. We traveled to see the new mother and baby. Early one morning, my three-year-old son came into her room and crawled into bed with the two of them. He snuggled deep under the comforter for a few minutes, then asked, "What do you feed baby Thayer?"

Bahne was a bit taken aback--not quite sure what he was asking. "I feed her noonie, just like your Mommy feeds your baby brother."

"Noonie? Good." My preschool breastfeeding advocate seemed satisfied with her answer.

I easily get caught up in the swirl of day-to-day activity that comes with a houseful of children. Breastfeeding feels like an interruption at times. With my brain going a million miles a minute, sitting down to nurse seems near impossible. Yet it never fails--letdown comes, followed by a rush of prolactin. I am calmed by holding my little one and allowing the hormone-accompanied peace wash over me.

Our legacy of nurturing and nourishing at the breast is passed on by example. Very often it is our silent witness which speaks the loudest. Our children will grow up with breastfeeding as the norm, assuming as I did, "Of course my babies will be nursed!"

The glow of dusk lights the living room. Bahne is sitting cross-legged on the couch nursing her daughter. I am nursing my youngest son, releasing the day's stress as my mother massages my feet. Rest. Breathe in the sweet smell unique to babies. In that moment, I get a glimpse of the sisterhood of motherhood.

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