I’ll breastfeed on a park bench; I’ll breastfeed from the swimming pool bleachers while I watch my older daughter learn to reach and pull; I’ll breastfeed while I negotiate financing for a new car; I’ll breastfeed sitting next to my father-in-law in his living room discussing strategy for sudoko puzzles; and I’ll barely even notice I’m doing it. But sitting in the middle seat on the airplane, the gentlemen on both sides of me elegantly dressed and coiffed carefully saying nothing and making no eye contact with me, my left elbow way over the mid-line of the arm rest, my right arm desperately trying to keep David’s legs curled tight to my body so they don’t kick the window seat person, my shirt dangerously close to full exposure, I feel a mite self-conscious and desperate.

The second leg of our flight was glorious. I had an aisle seat for one. And then I was sitting next to the loveliest couple. They had grandchildren David’s age. The woman encouraged him to grab at her jewelry. She made faces at him and held him. And when she said it was joy to have David kicking her as he nursed, I truly believed her.