On our daughter’s third flight, we decided to shake things up by bringing her car seat along, hoping it would coax her into some much-needed sleep. Spoiler alert: she had other plans. At the airport, she twisted her body and howled like we were trying to strap her into an electric chair. So, I took her out and cradled her, still holding her as we boarded. By the time we nestled into our seats, she had calmed down but was still squirming like a rock star on stage. That’s when a flight attendant approached.
“You’ll need to secure the baby in the car seat for takeoff,” he said, looking serious.
“Really?” I replied, “I can’t just hold her?”
He shook his head. “She has to be in the seat.”
“But if we didn’t have the car seat, one of us would hold her.”
“I know. But since you brought it, she has to be in it.” He sighed, a forced kindness in his eyes. “In an emergency, do you want her to be secure, or do you want her to be a projectile?”
I wanted to shout, “Do you want to hear her scream for half an hour?” Instead, I glanced from him to my daughter and quipped, “He just called you a projectile, kiddo.”
The flight attendant managed a weak smile before moving on. But I noticed my partner giving him a look that said, “You won’t stop me.”
Just before takeoff, she effortlessly whipped out a breast and fed our daughter. The flight attendant flew past us, avoiding eye contact like my wife had turned into a superhero. It was like a scene out of a movie—only our weapon was a feeding baby, not a missile. While the FAA might not have approved, I couldn’t have been prouder.
Fast forward nine months, and I was still learning. My partner and I had a heated debate about where she should breastfeed in our living room. She wanted to sit by the window; I was adamant against it. “I don’t want our neighbors seeing you topless!” I exclaimed. She asked why that mattered, and in a shameful moment, I gestured and said, “Because those are mine!”
Her reaction was a mix of anger and disappointment. “You don’t own my body,” she replied, but I stubbornly clung to my outdated mindset. Eventually, as I witnessed her breastfeeding our child day after day, my admiration for her grew.
I realized that breastfeeding is like an endurance sport. Unlike athletes cheered on by crowds, breastfeeding women often have only a small support system. If I couldn’t make her feel comfortable at home, how could I expect her to feel safe in public, where she might face judgment for simply feeding her child?
When I hear negative comments about women breastfeeding in public, it frustrates and saddens me. Women pour their heart and soul into an act that nourishes, protects, and comforts their child. Actress Lily Evans recently spoke out about this issue after facing shaming for breastfeeding in public. “In our culture, we sexualize breasts so much that people struggle to separate that from the act of feeding a baby,” she said. She’s spot on. Why did that flight attendant shy away from us? He let us risk our baby becoming a “projectile” simply because my wife’s breast was partially visible.
In our society, cleavage is often celebrated, but when a baby is involved, suddenly it’s taboo. What gives? I think for many men, it boils down to selfishness, a reluctance to share something they never truly owned.
For too long, I viewed breasts through a narrow lens, reducing them to mere objects. I’m not proud of how I reacted when my partner wanted to breastfeed comfortably in our home. Many share similar objectifying views, making it crucial to challenge these thoughts.
My journey toward understanding has been gradual, shaped significantly by the arrival of our daughter. As I aim to guide her toward becoming a strong woman, I’m also learning how to be a better man. It’s time to stop shaming women for the beautiful, yet sometimes challenging, act of breastfeeding.