I had to feed Belle on the go on Saturday. We didn't have time to sign and play. We had ten minutes. I tucked her into a side hip carry in the Moby, handed her an unopened fruit and vegetable pouch and left. Unsurprisingly, Belle was too stimulated by our mile and a half walk to even think about her morning milk or her pumpkin banana blend. She waited an hour or so, when I was deep in conversation with a friend, to shamelessly grab my breast and help herself.
"That's not a toy," the old woman said. "You need to put her on a schedule so you can do other things." Then she started telling stories about her two boys who are now in their forties.
I explained how our early morning had thrown Belle's feeding off. I probably shouldn't have said that. This woman clearly had a problem with breastfeeding in public. She didn't see where I was already getting things done, feeding Belle while getting groceries. She wanted to exert her own authority by giving me some rules for her own comfort. Then she told a story of how a man had gone off on her after she butted in where she didn't belong.
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