Becoming an attachment parent. Education support confidence strength politics

Becoming an Attachment Parent. Education, Support, Confidence, Strenth, Politics.
Again, another colleague has decided not to breast feed. I felt lost and sad. I asked why. She said that it did not work. The bottle is much easier. Why do the people like the easier way? Another friend lets her baby cry because it's easier. All babies cry so why care? She said. I am always looking after my baby. I am always taking care of my baby. I do not want to let my baby cry. My friend keeps saying you must be separated from your bb. You are too close to her. All those comments and critcisms lower my motivation and confidence.

Why do I continue to breast feed? Because it's best for my bb.
Why did I start to breast feed? Becuase it was normal for me.
Why do I care for my bb so much? Because I love her so much.
Why do I not let her cry? Because I want to understand her.
Why do I sleep with her? Because I want to share everything with her.
How do I keep going? Because she smiles at me each time she sees me. She loves me. She wants me. She needs me.
So I want to ask you the same questions, to encourage me, to be sure that I am not alone.
Thank you.
S

I feel so sad when I see mothers with tiny babies shopping for bottles.  I want to say something to them, to tell them that there is no better way of enjoying your child than breast-feeding, that it is such a pleasure to sleep with your baby and to cuddle them as much as you want to.  How can you be too close to your baby?  She came out of your body!  Separation is a natural process: she came out of your body naturally and as she grows, and you grow, the separation will continue to be natural.  I think that the philosophy that you will damage your baby by being too close is evil, and it has made millions and millions of lives unhappy.  Your friend probably just wants what she thinks is best for you, I'm sure she believes she is right.  But you know with all your heart what is right for you and your baby.

I breastfeed my baby because I can't imagine doing anything else.  My whole body feels revolted if I think about giving him a bottle.  He loves it, and so do I.  I was recently in South Africa, and at least 3  strangers (women) asked me if I was breast-feeding, and when I said 'yes!' they said 'Well done!  Good for you!  Keep it up!'.  They were so happy, so pleased.

I can't stand it when my baby cries.  My whole world collapses into pain.  I have to make it stop.  I know that if I ignore it I will stop feeling my baby's pain, and a very special and sensitive part of me will die.  I would be less of a woman than I was.  Less of a mother.  There can be nothing wrong with offering comfort when my baby needs it, or alleviating his profound fear. 

But you have to be a mother to understand that.  A real mother.  You can't explain it to someone who doesn't feel that way anyway, in the same way as you can't describe what it's like to be a parent to a non-parent.  You know what they're missing, but they don't.

I hope I've answered your questions one way or another.  You're a wonderful mother!  Keep going!
M

I overheard this extraordinary convesation between two male Oxford University students (Oxford University being the elite university in the UK):

Student A:  my mother breastfed me until I was three years old.
Student B:  my mother breastfed me until I was twelve or thirteen.
Student A:  last time you told me that it was nine (!)

Not a conversation you hear every day!  I think the English culture has a very different view towards breastfeeding than the French - all of the mothers I've met here in the UK breastfeed their babies, and almost all of them carry on for at least a year.  Having said that, the 'health visitor' told me I should be thinking about weaning and that my baby must learn independence by putting himself to sleep.  I smiled politely and didn't hit her.  It seems to me the medical proffessionals are about as stupid and uninformed as in France, but breastfeeding itself is more a part of the culture. M.