We nursed on the idyllic beaches of Malibu, sandy and serene; we nursed on the hot asphalt parking lot of Trader Joe’s, sweaty and angry; I pumped on the 405 freeway, on the couch, in the bed. It was tender bonding, it was never-ending physical exertion, and after eight-and-a-half months (don’t short me those last two weeks, thank you very much) and several spine-shivering experiences with four razor-sharp baby teeth, our breastfeeding journey came to an end. Making the decision to stop…
