Bullied into breast-feeding

This morning my 10-week-old baby did what he always does. He woke up at 6.30am and cried for his first feed of the day. I did what I always do. I struggled up, plonked umpteen pillows in bed and then latched him on. As he fed I drifted back to sleep, at some point so did he, and we slumbered on for maybe a couple of hours. Baby Leonard and myself probably looked like a government advert for breastfeeding, now that Ministers are telling us that all babies should be breast-fed for six months to ensure they get the best start in life and don't have their immune system depleted.

But behind this supposed idyllic image now officially adopted by the Government - and being pushed upon us - is a much more stressful reality. Breast-feeding isn't that easy. It is a full-time job.

My home has become a shrine to it. The bathroom is full of nipple shields, lanolin cream and these two oddshaped plastic cups I have to wear so that my breasts don't leak over my clothes. Draped over the back of the chair is a selection of nursing bras depending on which size my breasts happen to be - an F, yes an F, for when they are full of milk and an E for when they're not.

Downstairs in the kitchen there is the industrial expressing machine that I hook myself up to twice or more a day, plus the freezer bags for that milk and a selection of bottles for emergency feeds when I happen to want something as mundane as my life back for maybe an hour a week.

There's the steriliser as parts of the expressing machine need to be sterilised after every use, as do the bottles. Then there's the fridge which is now stocked full of things for me to eat that are "good for the baby".

There's steak (for iron) and fish (fatty acids) and spinach (more iron), eggs, nuts and seeds (vitamin D). I drink fennel tea to help his digestion. And after 40 long weeks of abstention, I still can't drink caffeine or eat spicy foods or chocolate, and although I do drink a glass of white wine now and then, I know I'm not supposed to.

It's not just the practical paraphernalia that feels so life-restricting, it's also the mental strain. I have endless books on the art of breast-feeding, and have read them all, hoping to do the best for my child.

Now I spend most of the day worrying that my milk supply is drying up. I worry that I may not have eaten enough portions of fruit or if I have slept enough. I worry that when I've walked the dog I may have over-exercised, another cause of milk drying up. I fret over my diet. Apparently if you breast-feed you lose weight more quickly, yet I have to eat more food than usual. Consequently I see no evidence of this dramatic weight loss.

I find the non-stop nature of breastfeeding frustrating. Day in, day out I have something attached to me. If it isn't Leonard, then it's the expressing machine. As soon as the baby stops feeding I know I have an hour and then I must express so that I can be ready to feed him again two hours later. Absolutely nothing else is achieved.

I feel my life has been taken over, not by my baby, but by my breasts. They feel like public property. I wouldn't normally reveal my breasts to the world, but now I have to. I try to do it discreetly. I sit in corners and in loos. So far no one has complained. But I am aware that we are not a society that is comfortable with this type of physical exposure.

What is even more worrying, given the Government's new health guidelines, is that I would probably be considered a breast-feeding success. Both my children have put on weight with such rapidity that health visitors welcome me with open arms. "You must be producing super milk!" they say. Maybe they'll give me a government approved Good Breast-feeder certificate to encourage me to continue.

But I'm not sure if I can. I don't have six months off work. I am going back quite soon and, despite my best efforts to freeze enough breast milk to last the hours I am away from home, it may not be enough. I also have to be able to function mentally to do my job. I cannot spend my days worrying about leaking everywhere and nipping into the loo to express milk and then put it in a freezer bag to take home.

And what are the women who cannot breast-feed supposed to do? I've never had cracked nipples or the pain of mastitis. I've never had to deal with the excruciating disappointment of a baby who just won't latch on. I have watched friends of mine so crippled with guilt and unhappiness when they've found breast-feeding nightmarishly difficult that it's ruined those first few weeks.

Instead of enjoying their brand new baby they've been red-eyed and desperate because they feel as if they have failed their own child. And often the more they try to feed their baby the more truculent and upset the child becomes. The guilt about not breast-feeding is a middle-class thing. When I had my first son I lived next to a council estate in north London.

All the girls at the health clinic merrily bottle-fed their babies. They chatted away and rocked or cuddled their children, while I sat in the corner miserably wondering if my eldest son had latched on correctly. Their babies were just as well-cared for and happy as mine, in fact probably even more so.

In the end, breast-feeding mothers stop breast-feeding because it is unrealistic to carry on. Some find they cannot produce enough milk, some stop because they are sick to death of it, and others want to have a bit of space within which to do other things.

We do not live in the type of society that supports and rewards a woman for breast-feeding for six months. Most women, as selfish as it sounds, do not want to live such a restricted life for that amount of time. And it's not really our fault. Endless flat-tummied celebrities get paraded in front of us with their young babies. They are extolled for getting their figures back, for returning to showbiz work or even turning up to a party. The message is: "Look, I've had a baby and that hasn't stopped me!" Who is congratulated for sitting around, resting and feeding themselves and the baby for 26 weeks?

No doubt there are a myriad health advantages for the mother and child. But so many other factors affect our children that who is going to know whether Child A is bright because he was breastfed while Child B isn't because he had the bottle? Or that Child C is fatter than D because he was bottle-fed? The guilt many nonbreastfeeding mothers feel is probably more damaging to the baby than accepting the difficult situation and getting the formula-milk out.

As I go to feed Leonard for the fourth time today, I suppose I should feel proud. But I don't. I feel angry for all the women who would love to stay at home and breastfeed but can't. I am angry that tired, frazzled new mothers are now going to feel even more guilty than they did before.

Mothers need support, love and care, not yet more reasons to feel that they have failed. We have given birth. We are raising future members of society. We are juggling careers, families and everything else women juggle.

Just give us a break. Please.