Author: Amanda

A Tribute to My Father

Alick

Alick Elithorn    

16th December 1920 – 16th April 2013

Alick was an extraordinary mind and a complex individual. His long life and extended battle towards the end pays its own tribute to his strength and determination, not forgetting his stubbornness.  His relationships, both professional and personal, were detailed stories in and of themselves, with each holding their own unique and different memories of his character.

Through facing some challenging family situations as a small boy, it is not hard to see why he chose a career of passion in studying the mind and no matter how complicated his personal life became, it is clear that he excelled in his field.

His peers describe him as a ‘genius’,’ ahead of his time’ and a ‘pioneer’ and his CV reveals the depths of his knowledge and experience. From fellowships to department heads, lecturer to researcher, his vision was sought after and in some cases exploited.  His cerebral intelligence was highlighted in his ability to create computer programmes for conducting psychological and neuropsychological assessment and as his colleague Gary Kay expressed, ‘he remained one of the most creative minds in the area of cognitive assessment’. Certainly, as his offspring, we were also his guinea pigs for endless rounds of Maze and C-tests in front of the computer.

But it didn’t stop there. Beyond the endless research and new projects that were constantly evolving, he would also stretch his interest to other areas. Founding ‘Families Need Fathers’ and running Game Advice; inventing his own board game and an infatuation with website names; there was always a new scheme, a new idea bubbling away.  How he had much time for a personal life is remarkable achievement in itself, but he certainly made enough time to live through two marriages, four children, 5 grandchildren and a few more significant and important unions.

And so we come to Alick, the father. It is no secret that he struggled at times in connecting with us, his children, yet when sharing our memories, we all have these nuggets of gold that he gave us. Whether for Justin, such practical gifts; deeply ingrained memories of learning how to light a fire or change the wheel on a car; memories that are stimulated regularly in daily life.  For Cavendish, it’s the habit of intellectual curiosity, Alick would always challenge him to think and discover for himself; whether it was returning questions about the world, disassembling an old phone or finding his way round computers. For myself, freedom, a knowledge that ploughing your own path is not only acceptable but also exciting and stimulating. And for Clare, we can only speculate, she has taken her gifts with her as she rests in peace, but considering her vocation as a radiologist, she definitely claimed his desire to heal.

His role as a father was probably the hardest challenge for him, as children mirror their parent’s fears and shadows, we certainly pressed his buttons.  But aside from the practicalities of parenting, which left him fairly bemused, he always had a scheme or project that he wanted to include us in and that has to stand on its own as a testament to his desire to have us involved in his life.

Above all he was a passionate eccentric. A man who looked in his diary only to discover that he had missed an entire evening held in his honour; a man who drove us around Eastbourne for hours looking for the hotel for his conference, sure he had good reason to have remembered the hotel’s name but at a loss as to what it was – he had, it was The Cavendish.  A man that had a ditty to sing on every occasion; who bought morris minors as if they were going out of fashion; who had bizarre concoctions of food bubbling on his stove; and who brought a homeless man into his house to live with him as a personal project. . He was difficult, charismatic, charming, challenging, harsh, funny, unique and ultimately one-of-a-kind. He will never be forgotten, he made sure of that.

We say goodbye to him with a melting pot of feelings swirling through us, but what I see in myself and in my brothers is an unexpected tenderness towards this unfathomable man and I am happy that we can send him off with that.

§§§§§§§§§

The Beauty Of Death – (Part Two – The Ascending)

by Kahlil Gibran

 

I have passed a mountain peak and my soul is soaring in the firmament of complete and unbound freedom;

I am far, far away, my companions, and the clouds are hiding the hills from my eyes.

The valleys are becoming flooded with an ocean of silence, and the hands of oblivion are engulfing the roads and the houses;

The prairies and fields are disappearing behind a white specter that looks like the spring cloud, yellow as the candlelight and red as the twilight.

The songs of the waves and the humans of the streams are scattered, and the voices of the throngs reduced to silence;

And I can hear naught but the music of eternity in exact harmony with the spirit’s desires.

I am cloaked in full whiteness;

I am in comfort;

I am in peace.

Goodbye Daddy

He died this morning, my father, at 4.35am.

I am numb.

From the moment I woke, snuggled in with my babies, to this moment now as I write, I have been busy with them. Busy with my children, busy with our lives, too busy to let myself think and acknowledge that he has gone.

My 3 year old asked me today ‘why are people sad when people die?’

She has a very pragmatic view of death, which we have gently fostered, encouraging her to notice that life and death cycles are everywhere, in nature, in life. Not to fear death. And when her great granny died, I described how we could always see her when we wanted by closing our eyes and remembering her hugs & kisses. So her question today made so much sense to me, if death happens as a part of life, why does it make us sad? I answered simply, saying that there are many reasons but sometimes it’s because we miss the person and sometimes it might be because there is still something that we want to say but we weren’t able to. She replied, ‘but if you still have something you want to say, you can just close your eyes and tell them…’

Yes, yes, yes…. and that is what I shall do right now.

Daddy

Our journey together has not been easy, it has been rocked with sadness, mistrust and catastrophic communication failures. But my heartbreak has always been wondering why you couldn’t really be a ‘daddy’ to me. Why you weren’t there, physically, emotionally, spiritually, tenderly, lovingly, you just weren’t there. In your own world, with your own dreams, that included your children or not, as you saw fit.

I wanted to be seen by you, I wanted to be loved by you and I wanted to be cherished for being me. And yes, I had expectations, I had hopes about how that would look, I would compare myself to my peers, compare their fathers who talked to them about their dreams and aspirations, who listened. Fathers who joked, fathers who danced, attended, visited, cared. I know you loved, but in this extraordinary, funny sort of way that was unique to you, that the rest of us couldn’t really understand. I know that you did the very best you could, but that I failed to recognise that translation from your best to my hopes. I know you would not have known how to do it differently, but it left me bereft. Do I grieve your loss today, or have I already spent half a lifetime grieving at the hole where you were supposed to be?

I do not feel like I have had a father. I have struggled to allow my husband to be a father at times, in the way he chooses to be, because I have no concept of what that role really looks like. I have to tear down those fantasies that I replaced you with and let him be human, fallible and most of all, thank goodness, deeply loving. But those fantasies have kept me hoping, kept me alive, imagining a knight in shining armour ride up and announce that he is my daddy, that he will rescue me and make everything all right. What happens to those now you are gone? Do they die too?

I have accepted you, I have rejected you. Mostly, I have kept my distance. I am grateful now that I no longer have to hold you at arms length, for my muscles are weary. I can carry your spirit beside me and allow the spirit love to be.

And I am grateful that just a few short weeks ago, my brother recalled a memory that I had never heard before. How when very young, he had created paper flames to stick up on his wall and telephoned you just down the road to proudly announce that his room was ‘on fire’. He remembers how you ran, how he put down the phone and within a breath you were there. Ready to save him. I love this story, I love that I heard this just before you died. That I could let you go, knowing that you were a daddy after all.

I love you Daddy, just as you are. Rest now, be at peace.

An Open Letter to the Family

Dear Family

Over the years I have received a number of unsolicited communications from various members of the family, be it verbally, by letter or, more latterly, email. The framework has been consistent, usually detailing my latest ‘failings’ in the eyes of the beholder, often followed by quite a sturdy character assassination and invariably signed off ‘with love’.

Today, on Easter Sunday, I received another two and, as usual, the strength and belief that the words carry against my character shattered my inner peace. What brings tears to my eyes is remembering what a beautiful day I was having with my two children, how I was really being present and enjoying their very beings and then I read these messages.

I had to haul my spirit back from a place of pain, indignation and anger to be with my children again – present I was not.

This letter is not to be a retaliation, a defence or a justification for who I am or the choices that I make, it is a plea. A plea to let me be the woman that I am, the mother that I am learning to be, the wife, the friend, the cousin, the niece, the daughter, the sister and any other part of me. Let me be.

Whether you believe I was simply born ‘this way’… or whether perhaps you can see that my path, my journey, has shaped me. I am a peaceful woman, I do not want the conflict, I do not wish to respond, to argue a lost cause. We hold different values and different beliefs. So be it; it does not make me cold, or compassion-less, or weird, or angry or difficult. It just makes me different to you, whilst I also share your genes – is that too hard a paradox?

Let me be.

I am not a child but a woman nearing her 40s, a mother, a member of the community and someone respected in my chosen world. If I do not seek your advice it is because it does not serve my path, it doesn’t make it wrong, but it is not for me. Should I need it, I will ask. I am not afraid to do that.

My thoughts will not create tremors in your world, there is space in the universe for everyone. My voice can shine and so can yours. Let me speak without apology for there is no reason to be sorry.

And above all, I would like to be amongst you, I would like to spend time listening to your stories, hearing your own history & dreams, but I cannot whilst you tell me I am wrong. I would like to hear your wisdom and know that I can take or leave it without offence, cherry pick from the bump & grazes we all have healed, learn from you, sit with you.

So I beg of you, no more emails, no more comments. You have your pathway and I have mine, but may the branches that inextricably link us be decorated with the blossom of peace.

Yours with love & hope….

 

 

‘eh, the lies folk tell’

One of my favourite children’s stories is ‘The Secret Garden’ by Frances Hodgson Burnett, even now I listen to the audio version to help me sleep at times. For those unfamiliar with the story, I will precis just a small thread that is relevant to me at the moment.

There is a boy called Colin, whose father is a hunchback. Since he was born everyone was fearful that he would become a hunchback too, so much so that he believed it and stayed in bed, fretful and fearful. He is discovered by his cousin, Mary, who draws him out into the Secret Garden, where he is inspired to test his strength, learn to walk and become strong and vital ‘just like any other boy’. The gardener, Ben Weatherstaff, finds them one day and sees how alive and vibrant he is, without even the tiniest of bumps on his back, with tears in his eyes he blesses him and murmurs ‘eh, the lies folk tell’…

This line (in a wonderful broad yorkshire accent) sings around my head as I unfurl and uncover some of my wounded self and bring to light my vibrancy, my truth, myself.

I cannot place in strong context the events that have occurred recently, without hurting those that perhaps have been unconscious in their parts. I am not writing to expose or defame others, but just to speak my own story. So I will write a little mystically to explain these lies.

I have realised that there is a part of me that has learned to judge, subtly and cleverly, sometimes even sympathetically, but very clearly I judge. Until recently, I saw myself as a little bit of a gossip, mainly focused on celebrity news, but always keen to hear news of other family members, old school friends and the like and, whilst not revelling in any mishaps, I could often have an opinion of their choices in clothes/parenting/jobs/houses etc etc. What I didn’t register was that there was anything wrong in that.

Through the course of my spiritual journey so far, I have embraced the tenets that I have met – total honesty, forgiveness (still working on that one!), love, transparency, self-love. But one that jarred me was ‘not gossiping’. Why did I have to give up my addiction to the National Enquirer? It was light reading, light entertainment and relaxing. In fact, I did give it up, but only because I wasn’t comfortable with my young daughter seeing the inappropriate images of celebrity women. I still didn’t get why gossip was so bad until I realised how much it had affected my life, my dynamics and my perceptions of myself to quite such a devastating degree.

I received an email from someone within one of my circles that detailed their very poor opinion of me and sainted their opinion of another member of the circle with whom I was currently trying to resolve a conflict. That she had taken sides was irrelevant, it was the information she believed she had that was shocking. The dynamic was such, that there was only one way that she could have held these thoughts and beliefs, by being fed them.

And my world exploded… An epiphany shone around me whilst I simultaneously wept with indignation and the loss of myself and my childhood. I realised that in one of my significant circles, information, opinions, thoughts, judgements…..gossip…. had been relayed over and over, year upon year. I recognised it, I mirrored it. I knew that the perpetrators had not done this consciously or maliciously but through their lack of awareness, their lack of remembering that there are always two sides to every tale; they had painted a picture of me that had been believed and reflected back. I had never understood why I have felt so displaced in this circle, that no matter what I thought I said, or did, it was received in strange, twisted versions of my truth. Until now.

Now, I see. Now I see that I was somewhat peripheral in the circle, through age, generation, hierarchy, and it was those with influence that had struggled with me and had shared their struggles. Not necessarily with any spite, in fact, most often for support, but they had shared only their side, their opinion, their beliefs peppered with their own wounded self. And when I faced the circle unknowingly, I received this distorted reflection back. I often left reeling, hurting, shameful and cowed. Those feelings, those reflections have shaped me indelibly.

I understand that without knowing me, my actions can be viewed through a variety of portals, some with empathy, some with distate. And that is gossip, judgement in an ‘excusable’ form. That is taking someone’s actions and creating a story of who they are and painting it as truth. That is why stepping away from gossip is such an integral part of my spiritual path. If we are mirrors to each other, let me reflect the best of ourselves by holding the mirror unblemished from preconceptions and half told tales.

Beyond what I have learned and continue to learn, there is now a wealth of myself that I must unlearn, that I am not defined by someone else’s story of myself, I am not a hunchback, I am not to be hidden. I am vibrant, vital, vulnerable, fallible and, most importantly, Me.

As this new perspective enters my life, I recognise everyday, small ways in which I judge, so often to validate my own choices. My work is not to release judgement, but to accept and be at peace with myself and all of my choices, so that I have no impetus, no craving to counter someone else’s path. Theirs is theirs; Mine is Mine; all of ours unique and necessary.

 

 

 

Be Reasonable

Today I went ‘postal’.

My eldest daughter hurt my youngest, in the endless tyranny of sibling development & relationship. It wasn’t big, it wasn’t dramatic, it was small and understated in fact, but I took it to a whole new level. The minutiae of the event is unnecessary to regurgitate but in reflection, in these moments where I wonder, will I ever learn to do this right? I look at what feelings trigger me to feel so mad.

And the words that form in my mind, over and over again, are ‘why can’t they just be reasonable’.

And I realise that so much of my anger, so much of making people Wrong (for that is what anger is) is my belief that they are being Unreasonable.

The absolute blessing and privilege of my children is that I know that they are of pure heart, so when I judge them, in this case, to be unreasonable, I know clearly, without murkiness, that it’s ‘my stuff’. In relationships with other adults, I can really justify why they aren’t reasonable. I can justify why my mother’s needs to express her thoughts are not reasonable; why my friend’s need to bring up her child differently to me are not reasonable; why my husband is so endlessly unreasonable….. But my children, I cannot hide from them, when I make them unreasonable, then I know it is I who needs to look within.

So I am tossing this word around my head – reasonable, reasonable, reasonable. And I am wondering why I am so fixated with it and, mostly, how have I managed to create myself and the judge and jury of what is reasonable? Why is my way the best way, in fact, the only way? Where did my standard of ‘reason’ come from? Part of the confusion around this lies with my belief that on so many occasions I offer the ‘voice of reason’, laying out a plethora of options to account for all manner of tastes and requirements, so having stretched myself wide, when someone dare suggest that their needs are even further out of that range…. PING….Snap… Postal…..

I am still mulling all these thoughts over and have yet to uncover and bring to light the tight and suffocating need to contain reason. All I do know is that my stretch for myself as I process this pathway is to allow myself and others to be unreasonable – in the very best possible way.

 

Blinded by Expectation

There are so many beautiful gifts that my children bring to my life as well as many challenging and hard lessons. One of my latest observations is how blinded I, and others, can be to the simple truths and beauty when weighted down with expectations.

My husband and I are trying to use ourselves as ‘models’ for our children rather than disciplinarians. This is based on the theory that as children naturally imitate, there is very little need for enforced teaching which can be confusing, suppressive and at times controlling, rather let the innate nature of development flow.

The challenges with this method is that as a society we have created our standards of etiquette and politeness that are sometimes premature for developing souls.

We have stopped asking our children for please and thank yous and instead model them. It ensures, from my part, that I am more conscious of imparting my gratitudes and I am enjoying the subtle rewards that brings personally. For my daughter, she has responded as theorised. She uses them as part of her natural speech pattern without weight or conscious intent. However, there are moments when social situations ‘demand’ these etiquettes and she has not had enough experience or modelling to ‘deliver’.

What I have observed in these moments is how the energy of expectation is heavy in the air, some try to demand words from my daughter, some leave loaded silences to fill, others sigh, nudge, judge. And then they miss it… They miss the natural moment that is more poignant, more beautiful than any prescribed adage.

My daughter may open presents without stopping to admire, administer, thank etc but a little while later she will return to each gift to examine and explore and appreciate. Appreciate. She really does, isn’t that what ‘thank you’ is all about?

Other times I have heard ‘please’ being requested and items withheld until the magic words are spoken. Yet moments later my daughter has expressed thoughtfulness and compassion towards someone that far outweighs her basic request for a snack or water without courtesy.

My daughter, and every child, is naturally kind, naturally appreciative, naturally generous. Yet all too often we are blinded by our need for them to be polite to see the true balance of virtue.

Climbing my mountain.

In recognising, owning and announcing the presence of my anger, I took my first step.

As I like to do, knowing that each problem we encounter has many roots and branches, I am taking a multi-pronged healing approach. My homeopath is supporting my energies and calm; whilst I am even more conscious of my nutrition and sleep (not easy with two little ones); but I knew that I needed more and dived into a book ‘The surprising purpose of anger’ which led me to the Centre for NonViolent Communication (www.cnvc.org). 

From there I traced a path, supported by internet strangers full of compassion and grace, to an NVC counsellor here in the UK who was able to come to my home and talk. Talk….

I have done some deep, powerful, shifting processes in my time that reached to my core wounds and brought them to light. This time, I just talked and cried. I shared with someone that I felt so surprisingly safe with because he understood, it was his expertise, he would not accept but nor would he judge. That was a key for me, I did not want anyone to excuse my anger, offer me reasons or justifications but, in the same breath, I wanted so desperately to be understood.

What I exposed, was the absolute terror I have of repeating the representation of anger I grew up with, the out of control, frightening and paralysing expressions of rage and ultimately the withdrawal of love. Yet the fear was manifesting. From the first time I had allowed my anger to be ‘out of control’, to shout without bounds, to slam doors with an energy that buzzed every nerve, I feared I had entered The Underworld, with no hope of return. The fear that I was not the person I wanted to be, the mother I hoped I could be, was creating the monster that I was becoming.

And I brought it to light….

And it stopped….

No, I am not without my anger, nor am I really close to the summit of my mountain as yet. But in recognising how much that fear was creating my reality, I regained my own ability to choose. I have seen that I am this person because how could I not be? That is simply the way I learned to express my own rage. Rather than denying it and pushing it down only to explode through my shame, I am owning it. And by owning it, I can sense it’s arrival without hiding and that gives me just those few extra seconds, those brief moments to choose to do it differently.

I have a lot of relearning to do, I huge amount of self awareness to create and a long path before my little girl truly feels safe with me again, but I am climbing.. up and up and up….

(A debt of gratitude to Daren DeWitt www.nvc-resolutions.co.uk)

Delete…..

There have been countless times on my journey where I’ve entered into relationship with individuals or groups (family, friends, work, community) that have been challenging and provocative. More often that not the relationship has deepened to a level of attachment before I’ve recognised any unhealthy or difficult dynamics. But what happens at this point? What am I supposed to do at this point?

When my world started to stretch into a more esoteric and spiritual places, I began to shed friends who were ‘holding me back’. Many from my teens, which had been tumultuous and dramatic, I wanted to be what I was striving towards and not reminded of who I once was. I handled many of these ‘break-ups’ badly, highlighted by their, still palpable, anger towards me many years later.

Here I am now, facing some similar questions about my current relationships and wondering if ‘DELETE’ is the healthy option or am I simply hiding from the mirrors that are being shown to me?

At this point in my questioning, I am flummoxed. I know there are times in our lives where the healthy choice is leaving behind those things that are unhealthy and when those are physical, like alcohol, it can be quite black and white. But when they are people that we have shared parts of our lives with, that maybe an integral strut within our community or sphere, what is the answer?

I think if I had reached a deeper place of spiritual harmony, then others’ behaviour would be less affecting, less impacting and I could allow the free flow of persons without too much drama. I am not there yet, I am still learning, I am still hurt, wounded, fearful of energies that I find oppressive, negative or draining. I want to protect myself, to protect my children and allow them a light, carefree beginning in this world, but I don’t want to run away either, because that is not a good example to them and neither does it benefit me. If I don’t find resolution in myself, then the issues will continue in different guises.

Where is that line that I draw in the sand? Is it a question of learning to hold my boundaries with greater strength and integrity? Perhaps I am fearful of their influences, a power display, perhaps I don’t value my own ability to ‘hold my own’ enough. Is the answer that simple? Maybe it is. Standing firm, knowing myself. In writing those words, the fear of being dogmatic, rigid, unbending, rise up inside me like a volcano. Being that wall of strength also feels like the creation of a wall of close-mindedness, yet allowing the free-flow of everybody’s view and opinions on my choices is suffocating me.

I am struggling to find peace with this place.

I Choose To Cry – fighting a legacy

I’m quite ‘good’ at being angry… in the sense that I don’t really ‘lose’ the plot. Even when shaking with rage, I have a certain element of control and don’t say things I don’t mean just to be spiteful. I learned a long time ago that those type of words can rarely be expunged. But most of all I learned to walk away… if the fire got too hot, to find a place for me to get some space, some thinking time, gather myself, analyse myself and come back with efforts to heal and resolve.

That doesn’t work with a toddler. If I walk away, not only is she frightened by my anger, she is abandoned by my leaving. For almost the first 3 years of parenting, I never had to visit my ‘angry’ place with my beautiful child. Then my gorgeous son arrived and brought with him a change in dynamic that has shocked me to my very core. I have visited darkness in myself that I hoped had healed and I have not been the mother I choose and wish to be.

My anger has flared when my eldest accidentally hurts my baby – a mother’s raw instinct kicking in? Yes, sometimes that is true. But it has also risen from the depths when my energies are low and both need me. I want to give them my time and my love and sometimes one of them has to wait. It hurts me to put their needs on hold, but my reaction hurts them the most. I have looked myself in the mirror and failed to recognise myself, but what I did see was my legacy…

I have realised and recognised this vein of anger as a thread running through my ancestral family, a coping mechanism, a ‘validated’ output. It is not acceptable to me but it is a habit hard learned and well worn into my psyche. It is going to take time, effort and pain to start to explore different ways to express when nerves are tight and jangling. Momentous waves of patience and compassion are required, not least for myself in order that I may have enough to pass onto my children.

What I acknowledge instantly is that, more often than not, if I can take a breath, pause and explore what is pressing that ‘button’, I really just want to cry. Cry because I’m tired, because my toddler is frustrated and I can’t find a way to help her, cry because it’s been a hard day. Crying was not OK for me growing up, crying was ‘manipulative’ and ‘weak’. My father sometimes cried and that was him being ‘manipulative’, so I believed, maybe it wasn’t…. My mother, I don’t remember seeing her cry but I do remember her being angry and I do think of her as ‘strong’. My grandmother, my grandfather… yes both angry but not ‘sad’. What has happened to sadness? It exists, it is natural, it is human, somehow it has been ‘wronged’.

Would my toddler be upset to see my cry? Yes, probably. But given a choice between Mama crying and explaining I’m tired (just as she does), Mama showing tears because she has tears too, Mama sitting down for a moment with a tissue and a sigh OR Mama cross, unaccepting of her feelings, pushing her away through the energy of my anger. I know which I choose and I know which is better for her in the long term.

Anger has a valid place in our lives, anger can save us from danger and can inspire us to fight injustice, but it is not valid for day-to-day parenting. I own that it is present in my life and in my house right now, but I am making a choice. I am choosing to cry and I am fighting that legacy that has hindered and inhibited my ancestors.

Send me blessings please, ooof, I can feel this mountain is going to be one hell of a climb.

 

Is breastfeeding a choice? Not quite that simple…

In response to an article posted in the Huffington Post on 11th May (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/gayle-tzemach/breastfeeding_b_1509658.html)

I am rather frightened by the idea that breastfeeding can be dismissed as a simple choice, ‘if you want to or not’… Breastfeeding is the BEST way to feed and nurture our children and there are no other alternative that come close to meeting all the elements that b/feeding fulfills. A child who is breastfeed (on demand ideally) has a myriad of health benefits, not just as an infant but stretching across a lifetime. On top of which and equally as important is the psychological element: the secure attachment, the self esteem, the independence giving, the nurturing, the non verbal love that is passed through breastfeeding. It is a massive discussion point and cannot, must not, be broken down to a simple ‘choice’ as if choosing flats or high-heels, country or town, career or housewife. A child’s human rights are involved in this decision and we need to look at that very very carefully indeed.

I don’t think anyone really denies the health benefits of breast-milk, although some have convinced themselves that formula might come close. It doesn’t, just take a quick look at this comparison of ingredients/components of breast-milk and formula – http://www.bcbabyfriendly.ca/whatsinbreastmilkposter.pdf. The World Health Organisation (WHO) places formula as 4th choice – 1st is breastfed by mother, 2nd is bottle fed expressed milk by mother, 3rd is bottle fed expressed milk by another mother and 4th is formula. FOURTH choice – how often do we choose something for ourselves and say ‘can’t have 1st choice, I’ll settle for 4th?’…. The WHO also recommend that we b/feed our children for a minimum of 2 years, why? Because it provides solid nutrition and enormous health benefits, creating a strong immune system.

I am a mother of two and when pregnant with my 1st child thought, ‘well I’ll b/feed for 6 months because that’s what a baby needs’. Thank goodness we hired a wonderful midwife and did some solid reading and research before I settled on that ‘choice’. I am currently still breastfeeding my almost 3 year old and her little brother, just 3 months. If I settle for two children it looks like I’ll be breastfeeding continuously for at least 6 years…. ooooof. That’s a massive commitment and if I dwelt on the ‘time’ element I could easily feel overwhelmed by the thought of it. Instead I’ve taken it day by day and what I really understand is how b/feeding has played such a vital and integral role to my toddler’s happiness, security and well-being. It is her rock from which she is free to roam and always return to. I have fed her through sickness, when no food passed her lips and her fever soared, confident that she was remaining hydrated and nourished. I have fed her when her head has crashed into concrete as she finds her feet, and felt that pain ease as she nurses. My daughter has never had antibiotics, nor in fact any conventional medicines. She has not needed them, she had comfort. Even through a broken arm, with any twinge, she fed and soothed. How can that be dismissed?  In meeting new people or experiencing new adventures she can always return to my arms and my breasts, she is confident, happy, independent. Ask almost any child psychologist and they will affirm that creating confident, happy children requires a child with secure attachment (not, as is presumed, one that has been dispatched to nursery etc with the idea of socialising) but one that knows it always has a place to return to. Breastfeeding provides so much of this reassurance because it skips the step that relate to our own insecurities as parents, they are not returning to our face full of the fears of life, but to the raw, innate, natural body-to-body, mother-to-child security.

So when we talk about choice, whose choice are we considering? Where are the advocates for our children and their choices? Do you think if we asked them in 20 or 30 years – these are the benefits of being breastfed, would you like them or not? How many would turn them down?

There is only one part of the Huffington Post article that I do agree with and that is that the pressure on individual mothers need to stop. This discussion is not to play with the fragile emotions of a new mother or mother-to-be or even mothers who have passed that point and leave them eternally guilty. No, that is not healthy nor helpful. But rather than counter that by making it a ‘choice’, we need to use the energy to pressurise our governments and our societal expectations to change, to address this issue head on and with the highest of priorities. In Sweden over 90% of mothers b/feed for more than a year because their society supports and values it. In the UK, a pitiful 20% of mothers b/feed longer than 6 weeks. That just highlights how much the attitude of government and society affect our decisions. So let’s stop saying we can’t b/feed (because only 3% of women physically can’t, the rest just think they can’t!) and let’s lobby for some BIG changes. We need lactation consultants available from birth to all women; we need compassionate maternity leave; we need public breastfeeding to be supported and welcomed; we need to reevaluate our priorities as parents and provide the space that is required for b/feeding and most importantly we need to stop treating our children as commodities, they are HUMAN BEINGS with rights and choices and they deserve the very BEST.