The true cost of breastfeeding, 1

It’s 5 in the morning. I’m lying in bed, on my side. Lucas is feeding from my breast. Attached to the other breast is a pump, extracting the milk that’s dripping.

It’s a cold morning. The sun has yet to rise, and the street is still quiet. I close my eyes and occasionally drift off, awakened only by the pressure of my child’s mouth at my breast.

Behind me, Oneal peeks over my shoulder, watching Lucas. He chuckles at the faces the child makes, and kisses my shoulder. Then he lies down behind me, his hand resting on my side.

I lie between my husband and my son, and I’m happy.

But it’s not always like this.