I love breastfeeding.
I love it for all the reasons women who love breastfeeding love it. (And not all women do, also for very good reasons.) I love having an excuse to spend several minutes, several times a day, doing nothing but looking at my daughter. Marveling at her eyelashes, her fingers, the way she hooks her foot in the crook of my arm, her determined grip on my bra strap. How she looks up at me, from time to time, just to make sure I'm still there. The moments when her little hand flutters from my cheek to my nose to my breast and back again. The fact that no one but me can do it. (At least, with this particular baby.) The way she smacks her lips when she's done and turns her whole body up to look at me with a smile.
Truly, I find it magical.
Also, it's a great time to read.
Since my daughter was born five months ago, I have read six books by Ann Patchett (every one she's written, I believe-- except Bel Canto, which I read when it came out in paperback); Lucy Grealy's Autobiography of a Face; 2012, by Dustin Thomason; and The Twelve, by Justin Cronin, which is so long I'm gonna say it counts as four normal-sized books.
All while breastfeeding.
In those moment when I'm not ogling my beautiful daughter, I'm flipping pages with my thumb. Thanks to my iPhone, I can read in light or dark, and easily hold my "book" in one hand while flipping "pages" with one finger.
And I don't have to feel guilty... because what else could I be doing?
Champ's gotta eat, after all.