Manicured Breastfeeding

The last thing I wanted to do before giving birth to baby #3 was to get shiny, sparkly toenails. Two hours before my scheduled induction, I sat in a spa massage chair at the Dulles Town Center getting a pedicure.  The sweet ladies working at the salon oohed and ahed over my pregnant belly. 

I'm convinced that great nails are responsible for a quick second stage of labor.  Pushing is so much easier when you catch glimmers of sparkles now and again. I really wish that I hadn't put off my first pedicure until this pregnancy.  But that's beside the point.

Almost exactly a month after my baby's birth, I returned to the same nail salon.  The ladies remembered me--at least my belly (which by the way, still looked like I was pregnant).  They oohed and ahed again, this time over the baby, who lay in my arms breastfeeding while my feet were getting scrubbed and rubbed.

When I returned again, I sat in the spa chair breastfeeding and playing with my now able to smile baby.  The ladies still remembered me, us.  After my baby fell asleep, I decided to give a manicure a shot.  As luck would have it, my baby woke up halfway through--right when I only had one hand polished. 

She was starving.  She was mad.  She wanted milk now.  She's wasn't willing to wait. 

As her screams engulfed the salon, I had to make a fast decision--should I risk nicking the wet polish or risk exposing my breast, since I would need to fumble for it with one hand?

I chose the latter.  That's what having three kids does to you.  At the same time, the young Vietnamese woman working on my nails, who barely spoke English, nearly jumped over the table to help me.  She was right there helping me pulling up my shirt, practically helping my baby latch on.  Two other women rushed over to offer aid--and although they didn't speak much English, I immediately knew their stance on breastfeeding. 

Despite the language barrier, it was clearly okay to breastfeed.  It was expected.  There was support.  There was no shame.

Once the baby was sucking away, the Vietnamese woman reached into her purse and pulled out her keys.  Had I read her wrong?  Was she trying to hint that I should leave now?  Maybe clue me in that she wanted to leave? Hey, I'm new to this manicured, suburban life.  I'm a novice when it comes to salon etiquette.

Nope.  Attached to her key chain was a tiny picture of two babies.  Her twin boys.  She wanted to show me the picture.  In broken English, I learned that her babies were still in Vietnam.  She was here to work.  I thought she was going to cry. 

I later learned that most Vietnamese women breastfeed their babies.  Breastfeeding my baby in front of her must have struck a cord much too close to home. Maybe it hit home for the others, as well. 

That's when I thought I was going to cry.

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When Julie isn't getting her nails done, you can find her at suburban ecomom.