During our daughter’s third flight, we decided to try a new strategy by bringing her car seat along, hoping it would help her nap. Naturally, she had her own plans. At the airport, she arched her back and howled as if we had strapped her into a medieval torture device. So, I scooped her up, still cradling her when we boarded the plane. By the time we settled into our seats, she had calmed down a bit but was still squirming like a rock star in my arms. That’s when the flight attendant approached.
“You need to put the baby in the car seat for takeoff,” he instructed.
“Really?” I replied. “Can’t I just hold her?”
He shook his head. “She has to be in the seat.”
“But if we didn’t have the car seat, I could hold her.”
“I know, but since you do, she has to go in it.” He sighed, a forced kindness in his expression. “In case of an emergency, do you want her secure or turning into a projectile?”
I wanted to retort, “Do you want her wailing for thirty minutes straight?” Instead, I glanced from him to my daughter and said, “He just called you a projectile, sweetheart.”
The flight attendant managed a weak smile and moved down the aisle. But before he could disappear, I noticed my wife giving him a look that said, “Good luck enforcing that rule.” Without saying a word, I knew what she was about to do.
Just as we were preparing for takeoff, my wife discreetly offered our daughter one of her breasts, and the flight attendant hurried past. It felt like a scene from an action movie where the hero takes a dramatic risk. Except in this case, the threat wasn’t a jet fighter; it was a flustered man in a blue blazer desperately avoiding eye contact with a nearly exposed nipple. And the weapon? A breast with a peacefully nursing baby. While the FAA might not approve, I couldn’t have been prouder.
Fast forward nine months, and I was a different person. Back then, I argued with my wife, Lisa, about where she should breastfeed in our living room. She wanted to sit by the big front window; I didn’t want our neighbors to see her topless. “Why does it matter?” she asked, to which I shamefully responded, “Because those are mine!”
I still remember her expression: a mix of anger, disgust, and disappointment. She reminded me that her body wasn’t mine to claim. I fought back, but I can’t recall how we resolved that argument. Time passed, and as I witnessed Lisa breastfeeding our daughter daily for over a year, my admiration for her grew immensely.
Maybe it was the endurance athlete in me, inspired by the Herculean feat she was undertaking. I couldn’t share the load, but I could cheer her on and fetch snacks when her nipples became sore. Yet, likening breastfeeding to an endurance sport is a poor metaphor. Unlike a marathon runner, a breastfeeding woman doesn’t have hundreds of fans cheering her on. If she’s lucky, she has a small circle of fellow moms and a supportive partner. If her partner can’t help her feel at ease at home, what happens when she’s out in public? If she dares to feed her child outside designated nursing rooms, she faces disapproving glares from strangers.
Whenever I hear criticism aimed at women breastfeeding in public, it frustrates and saddens me. The frustration stems from knowing a woman works hard—often sacrificing her own comfort—to nourish her baby, providing essential nutrients and comfort. The sadness comes from realizing I once held those judgmental views, equating a partially exposed breast in public with something sexual.
Actress Mia Thompson recently voiced her thoughts on this issue after being shamed for breastfeeding in public. “In our culture, we overly sexualize breasts, making it difficult for people to accept the sight of a breast being used for its true purpose,” she stated. She was spot on. Why else would the flight attendant have avoided us so adamantly? He was more concerned about my wife’s exposed breast than the safety of our baby.
As Mia and others have pointed out, cleavage is celebrated in the media, but when a baby is involved, suddenly it becomes a scandalous act. How does that make sense? I can’t presume to know the flight attendant’s thoughts; perhaps he was just being respectful. But I suspect many men, at least, grapple with selfishness, not wanting to share something that was never theirs to begin with.
For most of my adult life—and all my teenage years—I viewed breasts solely as sexual objects. I’m not proud of this, nor of my reaction when Lisa fought for her right to breastfeed in the comfort of our home. I realize I’m not alone in seeing women’s bodies through an objectifying lens. While it feels isolating to admit these thoughts, it’s a necessary step toward growth.
It can be a slow evolution to transition from the typical male gaze to a more respectful understanding of women’s bodies. My journey accelerated with the arrival of our daughter over a year ago. I find myself in a position where I’m teaching her to be a strong woman while learning to be a better man. I hope to encourage everyone to stop shaming women for the beautiful and courageous act of breastfeeding.
This post originally appeared on Home Insemination Kit. For more resources on pregnancy and home insemination, check out CDC’s information and explore this insightful article about the journey of intracevical insemination.
Summary
Breastfeeding in public is a natural and important act that should not be met with shame or judgment. The author shares his journey from ignorance to understanding, emphasizing the need for societal acceptance of breastfeeding as a nurturing act rather than a sexualized one. He calls for a shift in perspective, encouraging everyone to support breastfeeding mothers and recognize the beauty of their commitment to nourishing their children.