November 2022. I lay on my bed in a disarrayed nightgown, like a Victorian consumptive. My husband approached, holding our newborn son. By now, I had come to regard him as my torturer and my son akin to a pair of pliers or an electrical cable. “He’s hungry,” he said. I shuddered in anticipation. As Cyrus began to feed, I looked down at my feet and saw my toes fold back on themselves. Toe-curling pain, I thought. I had never before realised how literal the cliche was.
When I was pregnant, I barely thought about how I would feed my son. If asked, I would say I would breastfeed if possible, but use formula milk if not. When Cyrus was born, the midwife laughed as she handed him to me. “He’s rooting already,” she said. His mouth searched for my nipple and latched on immediately, his ears still slick with amniotic fluid. That night, I overheard the woman in the bay opposite me ask for formula. “Why?” asked the midwife, with a challenge in her voice that made me feel relieved I didn’t have to ask.
