This photo. It makes me sad. It was 1971 and my mum, 36 years old (ancient for a first-time mum in the 70s) had given birth to me 6 weeks earlier.

She desperately wanted to breastfeed but in 1971, breastfeeding wasn’t fully supported. If you had any trouble breastfeeding, then doctors, mothercare nurses, friends, all persuaded you to give your baby the bottle with the consolation, “She’s too hungry. You don’t have enough breast milk”. And finally, after 6 weeks of perseverance, my mum folded. She did have one advocate – a nurse who visited her in the early days and tried to support her decision to breastfeed. But as my mum looked around, she didn’t see other mums breastfeeding and figured, quite contrary to her instincts, that putting me on the bottle couldn’t be that bad if everyone else was doing it.

And it’s not. This isn’t a breastfeeding debate. I strongly believe that women should make their own fully informed choices (if they even have the luxury of a choice – some women don’t). I breastfed both my kids until they were 13 months. Neither child was easy. Scout had an undiagnosed tongue-tie and breastfeeding her was excruciating agony for the first couple of months. I was determined. Stubborn. When Inky came along, the early experience was much the same, with me exhausted, in a flood of tears and pain trying to get her to feed. My husband, along with the paediatrician at the Mercy were the voices of reason – “You have to protect yourself. If it’s too hard, too painful, top her up with artificial milk”. I knew what they were saying and they were right to a degree - it’s better to have a child with a bottle than a mother with a prozac drip.

One day on the ward, the paed who was suggesting I supplement Inky’s 4.2kg appetite with artificial milk had a snarky exchange with a midwife who was chanting “Breast is best! She cannot have artificial milk. SHE CAN BREASTFEED” like an obsessed lactation-zombie. Truly, I wanted to tell them both to f*ck off with their own agendas, because they’re both right to some extent and it’s about balance, choice (if you have one). Breastmilk is clearly the better option for women who want to do it, who are able to do it, but this aint no ecstatic nirvana where everyone follows “best practice” (whatever that might be at the time) and all mums have amazing, nurturing breastfeeding experiences. Mercifully with Inky, the lactation consultant diagnosed a tongue-tie and once she had the snip, life was so much easier. But this isn’t the case for everyone.

I reckon if you can breastfeed, then you should breastfeed for at least 6 months. I know that may be polarising, but that’s my stance. Breastfeeding was the way to go for me. My choice. But I was lucky to have a choice and if it had become a question of my mental health, then you can bet your arse I would “top her up” with artificial milk (how they would be able to tell the difference in my mental health is anyone’s guess). There’s more to being a mum than your breastfeeding “To Do or Not To Do” choices.

I got through the craziness of those early months and ended up having a lovely breastfeeding experience with both my daughters for the most part (if you discount the bit about Inky pinching the f*ck out of my boobs out of boredom towards the end. Geez, sorry I didn’t top myself up with Milo). But I often thought about my own mum and her real (and stymied) desire to breastfeed in a generation where the cult of Nestle was mercilessly shoved down her throat.

I am grateful that I have support in my decision to breastfeed and all the information I need to make an informed choice (hey, thanks inter webs!). A husband who is my pragmatic compass when I’m in a state of dogmatic pigheadedness (note: it usually wins) and friends who would accept any choice I do make, whether they agree with it or not and sympathise with me if it is out of my control. I do feel that my mum lacked that quite a bit when she first embarked on her motherhood journey.

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Linking up with Twinkle in the Eye for Wordless Wednesday (which quickly became Wordy Wednesday, please forgive me).

Yesterday at Playgroup, there were about 10 mums (it’s always mums) mainlining plunger coffee, eating biscuits and watching their kids play in idyllic delight. Except for my child who was biting babies’ noses, sitting on other toddlers and spending a great deal of time with her own nose in the corner of the room. But you know. Swings and roundabouts et. al.

A dad who I’d never laid eyes on before came into the room. I love it when dads show up to Playgroup. You can see the mums sniffing for a piece of wholesome daddy meat. The dads add flavour to the room (I mean that in a metaphoric sense). He came up to me and introduced himself. I shook his hand and introduced him to the mum I was talking to. Civilised, right?

Then he, GASP, went up and sat down at the table of mums and just started [pause for dramatic effect] chatting.I stood there amazed. And slightly in awe. Most mums don’t do that. There is usually a “getting to know you phase” with new mums who join the group. I organise the playgroup so it’s my job to make sure everyone feels like a comfy armchair when they walk into the room. I am always super friendly (with the notable exception of when I’m premenstrual and would bite your head off soon as look at you. Perhaps that’s where my child gets it from) and welcoming, throwing in slightly inappropriate and self-deprecating jokes to break the ice which often go down like Hugh Hefner on a Playboy Bunny, but, ahem, that’s me. Inappropriate and self-deprecating (not a Playboy Bunny). It’s fascinating to see the social cogs ticking over on the mums as they enter the room. They keep to themselves for awhile, sometimes over several weeks, sussing out who to talk to, who they want to get to know, who they’d rather not. They make small talk and eventually they become like wallpaper but it takes time. I’m sure for some people it is torturous.

I do it too. If I see a group of mums I don’t know in a setting that encourages socialising, the internal dialogue goes off like the clappers in my head – “There are some mums. They look nice. What if they’re not nice? Will they like me? What if they don’t like me? Is it the right time to approach? What if they’re talking about something really personal and don’t want me there?” Usually I suck it right up and approach them anyway, but not always. Sometimes I chicken out.

Of course I’m generalising, but there is a pattern. Dads seem not to have the same swiftly damaging internal dialogue that mums do. I love my mama biatches, but it was so refreshing to hang with a dad who didn’t seem to give a shit that he was the only man in a sea of oestrogen. I suspect it’s the same attitude that will make the new generation of daddy bloggers infinitely more successful than their female counterparts. There is a scent of no-bullshit, of camaraderie for the sake of it, rather than as a pre-meditated social call.

They don’t get caught up in the same friendship neuroses that we do. I hope that dad comes back next week. We need him to come back. Come back, dad, come back.