This morning I fed my baby in the backseat of a parked car in downtown St. Louis during rush hour. Here is a list of other places I have fed my baby the last two days: my bed in Chicago; a rocking chair in front of a Cracker Barrel in Bolingbrook, IL; the front seat of a car parked at a rest stop just outside of Springfield; the backseat of a car parked next to a swamp on the side of the highway somewhere near the Illinois/Missouri border; a hotel room in the shadow the arch in St. Louis; an upscale tap house, while munching on honey, beet, mustard popcorn; and a hotel bed at 6:15 a.m., because babies don’t understand the concept of vacation. Here is a list of people I’ve made uncomfortable while feeding my baby in the last two days: the older man enjoying his breakfast at Cracker Barrel at the table with a view of my rocking chair; the middle-aged man who parked next to us at the rest stop, covered the side of his face, and shouted “sorry!” at me as he passed my side of the car; and the 20-something male waiter at the tap house who lost the ability to look me in the eyes and make friendly chit chat as as soon as the baby started eating. Feeding Dylan at home is not so hard. The 2-3 hours between meals stretch out into eternity. It’s harder to keep track when we step out of real life and Dylan has to keep reminding me that she’s hungry and that’s how I end up taking my shirt off everywhere I go. I never thought I’d be a public breastfeeder, but I really don’t see how to avoid it, and it keeps me sane and Dylan full, so sorry dudes who find the whole thing bizarre and uncomfortable.
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