For our daughter’s third flight, we opted to bring her car seat along, hoping it would help her rest. Naturally, she had different plans. At the airport, she arched her back and wailed as if we were torturing her. I took her out, cradling her as we boarded the plane. By the time we settled into our seats, she had calmed a little but was still squirming. That’s when the flight attendant approached.
“You’ll need to place the baby in the car seat for takeoff,” he instructed.
“Really? Can’t I just hold her?” I asked.
He shook his head. “She has to be secured in the seat.”
“But if we didn’t have the car seat, one of us would be holding her,” I protested.
“I understand, but since you do, she must go in it.” With a sigh, he added, “In an emergency, would you prefer her to be secure or to become a projectile?”
I wanted to respond, “Do you want her to scream for thirty minutes?” Instead, I glanced at my daughter and told her, “He just called you a projectile.”
The flight attendant managed a weak smile before continuing down the aisle. I noticed my partner exchanging glances with him, and I sensed that our daughter would remain in my arms. Without needing to speak, I understood her resolve, and I knew the attendant wouldn’t challenge her.
Just before takeoff, my partner discreetly began breastfeeding our daughter, and the flight attendant hastily walked past us. It reminded me of a scene in a movie where the hero maneuvers to avoid capture—only in our case, the “enemy” was a neatly dressed man trying to avoid eye contact with an exposed breast. The act itself was simple yet powerful, providing comfort to our child. Though the FAA might not have approved, I felt immense pride.
Reflecting back to nine months earlier, I realize how naive I was. My partner and I once debated where she should sit in our living room while nursing. She preferred the glider near the window; I was uncomfortable with the idea of her being exposed to our neighbors. “I don’t want you to be topless for all to see!” I insisted.
“Why does it matter?” she countered. In a moment of immaturity, I remarked, “Because those are mine!” Her reaction was immediate: anger, disgust, and disappointment. She rightfully pointed out that I had no right to claim ownership over her body. Despite my stubbornness, over time, I grew to appreciate her dedication to nursing our daughter daily for over a year.
Perhaps it was the endurance athlete in me that admired her commitment. Unlike a marathon runner, a breastfeeding mother often lacks public support, relying primarily on a small community of fellow mothers and her partner. If I couldn’t make her feel comfortable at home, how would she feel when navigating public spaces, where nursing can provoke judgmental stares from strangers?
Hearing criticism directed at women breastfeeding in public frustrates and saddens me. It’s disheartening because these women are performing an incredibly valuable act: nourishing their babies, boosting their immune systems, and providing comfort. It’s also sad because I’ve been guilty of judging too, equating a partially exposed breast with something sexual.
Mila Kunis recently voiced similar sentiments after being shamed for breastfeeding in public, stating, “In the States, we sexualize breasts so heavily that people struggle to see them as anything else.” Her observation is spot on. The flight attendant’s discomfort around breastfeeding mirrors a societal issue; while cleavage is celebrated in media, a woman nurturing her child is often seen as inappropriate.
I spent much of my life viewing breasts solely as sexual objects. This realization, coupled with my earlier possessiveness regarding my partner’s body, is embarrassing. Yet, I know I’m not alone in objectifying women’s bodies. Acknowledging these thoughts can feel isolating, but it’s a necessary step toward growth.
As I strive to teach my daughter to be strong and confident, I’m also learning how to be a respectful man. I urge everyone to stop shaming women for the natural and heroic act of breastfeeding.
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In conclusion, let’s embrace the act of breastfeeding in public as a natural, beautiful expression of motherhood rather than stigmatize it.