I've been very lucky with feeding my kids, not least with the indulgence/tolerance/acceptance of my friends, acquaintances, relatives, lover (let alone strangers) for me not only whipping my bangers out but also inflicting the occasional milk shower. I've had good supply, and been able to cope with the early niggles and aggravations. It makes it easier to be comfortable and supportive of breastfeeding I'm sure. I see myself as a bit of an old school feminist too so rather like the idea of any 'activism' I can be a part of, especially one which has so much potential for empowering women however fucked up the breast/bottle debate my have become in the UK.
Yet this morning my three year old son (aka Spiderboy) demonstrated a sense of breastfeeding as the norm in a way I could never have done. Whilst creating sticky havoc making playdough dinners on the kitchen table he offered his brother a large, purple, squishy blob. 'Is that a ball you've made for son2?', I asked, touched by the inter-sibling generosity. 'No it is milk' he said. Adding, with a sense of incredulity at my puzzled face. 'A boob full of milk!'