It started while I was in hospital recovering from my c-section; a Staff Nurse asked me if I'd breastfed my other daughter, and I said "I still do." She was amazed. She asked whether that meant my new baby would be deprived of colostrum. I explained carefully that when pregnant, the new baby took hormonal priority, and the poor toddler had had to make do with dribbles of colostrum for months. So the Staff Nurse grabbed my boob and tried to "improve my latch." Meh.
My toddler came in to see me that afternoon, fewer than six hours after the operation, and I wasn't well enough to feed her, which she seemed not to mind, but it made me sad. Apparently she asked for me that night, too. But the following day she came in and I was able to feed her with her new baby sister; Toddler was propped up beside me on pillows, to keep her off the section wound, and Baby was resting on my arm across my front, while my arm was resting on a pillow, to keep it off the wound. Toddler watched Baby intently and found it fascinating; at one point she even reached an arm over and cuddled her. We took plenty of photos.
After that, we nursed in hospital several times. It was easy, with a limitless supply of pillows, a very firm mattress so that no-one accidentally sagged onto anyone else, and no distractions. It was also invaluable in terms of keeping me in touch with Toddler while we were seperated for the longest times we'd ever been so. I think that hurt me more than her. Her security and self-confidence far outweigh mine.
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