In light of the recent news, in which a mother at a Flint restaurant was asked to nurse her baby in the bathroom, I am revisiting some older posts I wrote about breastfeeding.

I don’t think there is a place where I would not breast feed my baby if he was screaming in hunger.

I nurse in stores, restaurants, and in church.  I nurse sitting, standing and while walking.  I’m not in-your-face! about it, but I’m not about to go hide in the bathroom stall either.  I am discreet, but I’m not ashamed.

Someone once made the comment that thirteen-year-old boys seeing a breastfeeding woman would be like “oooohhh!” *googly eyes*

What?  Seriously?  I guess I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a young male seeing covered breasts portrayed in a manner besides that of the cleavage-baring, sex-kitten manner that is so prevalent.

Now, with all this being said, you may get the mistaken impression that I ridicule heterosexual males and their fascination with breasts.

You would be wrong.

Breasts are for feeding babies.

Breasts are also for pleasing husbands.

As much as I detest the over-sexualization of breasts (and women in general) in our culture, I am not against viewing breasts as sexual.  They are, and always have been.  That is not the fault of lusty men, it is the the way we’re designed.  The female form was made to entice and satisfy our husbands.

So even though I will defend the naturalness of mothers nursing their babies anywhere they happen to be,  I also recognize that breasts are, by nature, sexual and will keep my assets covered.

I have a medicine chest, so to speak, that I carry everywhere with me, ready to nourish my baby.

And I have a treasure chest, ready to delight my husband.