From: Milk: A story of breastfeeding in a society that’s forgotten how
It is dark here in my bedroom. The only light glows dimly from my laptop. As I begin to write these words my sleeping baby is in a Moses basket by my bed, twelve weeks old. He is overwhelmingly beautiful, peacefully lying there, breathing softly. This little bundle is the centre of my world and my unexpected literary inspiration.
I have always intended to write a book. When I was small I always said I wanted to be an author rather than an astronaut or a princess. As I grew older I started a myriad of tales, only to become disenchanted with the plot all too quickly. I hoped it would simply be a case of finding the subject matter that gripped me sufficiently to keep me writing, but the right one seemed to elude me.
I knew motherhood would be life-changing and would give me a lot to be passionate about, but I certainly did not expect to find that feeding my baby would reveal a whole world I was completely unaware of. Who would have thought it would be the thing to finally inspire me to start writing?
What authority do I have to write such a book? Who cares about what I have to say? I’m not famous and I’m far from an expert. But, I am a mother who has breastfed a baby. Every mother and baby has their own personal tale and this is mine.