Some mornings ago, as I admired the early spring sunlight gleaming off the white ceramic lid of the kettle nestled on our round dining table, I felt grateful for that moment of maternal pause. My partner and I were still coming to terms with our post-partum altered state of sleep deprived consciousness, and so, as the contents of the kettle warmed their way into our insides, we felt energised and comforted by each sip of the adrak badishep chai I’d brewed. That morning I had prepared poached eggs. I had not expected to feel so ravenous, post-pregnancy. Especially since I had been on a strict diet since November because of my gestational diabetes diagnosis, the licence I was given upon my discharge from the hospital to “eat whatever I wanted and felt like” was one I welcomed eagerly. 

I’d heard from friends that breastfeeding really fuelled one’s hunger, but I hadn’t anticipated the bottomlessness of it. As someone who gave birth through a C-Section, it took longer for my milk to let down, for my teats to announce themselves visibly enough to facilitate a successful latch, and subsequently provide sufficient nourishment to our newborn. It was hard to swallow the doctor’s suggestion that each feed be supplemented with formula. When, five days after birth, his weight fell again by 20 per cent, we had to feed exclusively with the bottle, and I was told by the midwife to begin pumping every three hours in order to increase my supply.