Soooo busy these days, I can barely lurk. But a mom recently shared with

me this quote from a newly published (1997) novel by Faber and Faber,
Massachusetts, titled "A Child Out of Alcatraz," by Tara Ison. It is
about the life of families living on Alcatraz Island who cared for the
prison inmates (a bit of California history) from the perspective of one

of the wives who herself slowly becomes imprisoned by her life. I found
the book to be a good read. This quotation provides a very interesting
glimpse (and very realistic, I think) about how breastfeeding was
managed in the 50s. I thought as I read this, this was the experience of

many of the *grandmothers* of our clients, who sometimes inadvertently
sabotage breastfeeding. I think these concepts are still strong in our
times. It is an insightful passage and a unusual addition to our
collection.  I quote from p.82, when Vivian is getting dressed for her
first shopping trip into the city shortly after the birth of her
baby, Olivia:

A brassiere that finally fit, now that her breasts were back to normal,
free of fluid, ornamental. She'd hated using the breast pump, feeling
like a cow at milking time, but it relieved the pressure on her swollen
breasts, hastened the end of those creamy leaks on good linen blouses.
She often thought it must be easier to nurse, that somehow artificial
milk was contrary to something. At St. Francis during her twenty-minute
shift with Olivia, she'd held the baby, this baby she hadn't wanted and
thought of stabbing away, who'd gone from a grain of sand inside her to
this pearl, and felt a swelling of emotion that caught her by surprise,
a happiness and relief to have her; at that moment she felt her breasts
swell, too, as if reaching, wanting to link her to this child. Arthur
had wanted to call the baby Frank if it had been a boy; for his Old Army

Buddy, but it was a girl, and Vivian's turn; she chose Olivia, for
no-one, just because she liked the sound of it. The nun-nurse left the
room; Vivian tugged open the neckline of her nightgown, eyes on the
door, and cuddled the baby against her left breast, her heart. Her
nipple grazed Olivia's right cheek; the baby turned instinctively, her
little lips mouthing the air like a guppy, searching. Vivian glanced
around furtively, sweating, feeling this was an inappropriate act, and
guided her nipple to the baby's mouth. Olivia clamped down on it with an

unbabylike force that made her gasp, and began to suck. Vivian felt the
milk leaving her, drawn out in a tugging, lulling wave, feeding this
baby who rested a tiny hand on the side of the breast as if holding on.
She felt an ache in her breast and an ache between her legs deeper than
the twinge of stitches. The intensity shook her. She closed her eyes,
smelling the sweetness of the baby's warm head, her own fresh sweat, the

smell of her own warm milk spilling gently from the corners of Olivia's
mouth, and felt the waves flow between her and her child. The nurse came

in, with a nurse's bustling crispness bearing sterile gauze and alcohol,

and caught her.

"Now, Mrs. Thornton, you don't want to do that, dear. That'll throw the
whole feeding schedule off, won't it? Best to keep her on a steady
schedule, that's what'll keep her from colic, you know. Formula's
special made for that. You've had two others, haven't you?"

And pulled the baby gently away from Vivian's breast, wiping off her
foamy lips with a piece of gauze, mumbling about germs and the overused,

hanging breasts of native women in National Geographic, about good
sterile rubber nipples. She removed the baby to the nursery, glancing
back at Vivian with faint disapproval, leaving her feeling guilty,
selfish, and vaguely dirty.

No, of course the nurse was right; her breasts went neatly and without
stretch marks into her best, pre-baby brassiere, and Olivia was a
healthy baby, following the formula, chubby like the cherubs on boxes of

laundry detergent. The magazines were clear on this; don't let having a
baby ruin your figure, take away your attractiveness, there's no excuse
for that; keep yourself tight and trim.