Tonight I saw some commentary on DadSummit about a device that simulated breastfeeding.

I had some feelings.

My friend Doug French encouraged me to write. 

So here goes.

I have one child. She's fourteen. 

She's healthy and happy.

I only breastfed her for seven weeks, because that was the minimum my OB-GYN gave me for her health.

I hated breastfeeding.

Imagine, my men, what it would feel like to have a part of your body that you had always associated as a secondary sex charactaristic suddenly turned into your baby's only method of survival.

Someone suddenly told you that unless you gave up what you had always associated as part of your sexuality, your baby might die.

Welcome to being a woman.

I wasn't onboard.

I didn't like the feeling of satisfaction breastfeeding gave me. I considered that part of my sexuality.

I spent 45 minutes on each side trying to get three ounces of milk. My baby cried and fed constantly. I never slept. Every three hours, it started over again.

I moved to formula. La Leche League hated me.

That was 13 years ago. You guys, she's fine. This child has missed one day of school for illness in ninth grade, and that was due to a stomach virus. Thank God she had all her vaccinations, because don't get me started. 

And so I had a reaction tonight to a simulated breastfeeding scenario for men. I saw their comments as dismissive and resistive. I thought, you know, it must be really nice to be given a hard pass by society to feed a child with your bodily bluids. Cry me a river, men.

Seriously. 

I'm 45. I've had one pregnancy, one childbirth. I have suffered endometriosis, where part of my uterine blood escaped into other parts of my body. Yes, that's internal bleeding. I was cauterized at eighteen. I've woken up at night soaked in sweat. I've felt the rage that only comes from hormones. And through it all, I've shown up every single day at work. I've done everything a man can do, bleeding.

So to see men shirk away from a simualated breastfeeding exercise? Super pissed.

Why must we lose the hormones that makes us beautiful as part of the end of our childbirthing years?

Why must childbirth be the worst pain in recorded history?

Why must society make us feel that we are less than if we don't volunteer for that pain?

Why must we breastfeed when it's not necessary for human survival and it often causes pain for the women who do it?

Who has the right to guilt any women for how she chooses to ride out her own childbirth and parenting experience?

Doug challenged me to write about it, so here it is. I love you, men. I love you for all the things you have contributed to my life. I love you for building homes and fixing pipes and getting rid of stray animals. But I don't think that I'm going totally rogue to say when it comes to physical suffering, you have no idea.

You have no idea.

The woman in your life faces more pain on her crimson tide than you did when your broke your leg in third grade. I'm sorry, it's true.

I am here to tell you that being a woman hurts so much worse than your woman has ever shared with you, because we've been socialized to hide it.

I've had days where just my monthly cycle brought me to my knees. I can't begin to tell you about labor pains or bleeding nipples. Just don't ask. Just listen.

Don't question whether understanding what it's like to breastfeed might check your man card. 

Check whether you would ever qualify for a woman card. 

Seriously. 

(Editor's Note: I met Bonnie years ago via the blogosphere and love her work. I hope you'll enjoy her post on body image and motherhood, and please check out her collaborative video project on The Shape of a Mother. - Rita)

When my daughter was born almost fourteen years ago, I was utterly unprepared for the extent of physical changes that would come along with the pregnancy. Afterwards, I felt torn between the awe and pride I should have been feeling for what my body did, and the shame I actually felt for looking nothing like the pictures I saw in magazines.

I assumed I was the only one dealing with this so I kept it to myself for a long time. And then one day, almost four years later, I happened to catch a glimpse of another mom’s belly and in that instant I knew this was actually a totally normal thing. It was such a relief to be able to let go of that self-hate I had spent so much time focused on and I wanted to make that knowledge available for women worldwide.

I wanted everyone – mothers, women who aren’t mothers, and men – to know mama bodies are normal. So I started The Shape of a Mother. It’s been just about a decade now and I’ve published the stories of about 2,500 moms in that time. Here are the top five things I’ve learned working with women and body image.

1. We’re harder on ourselves than on anyone else. Probably the most common comment people leave on the submissions that are posted is something like “Wow! You’re my body twin! But you look way better than I do!” Logically, if two people look that much alike, we can assume they probably both look equally lovely. And, certainly, if you saw two friends of yours who looked alike, you would think that neither was more beautiful than the other, right? But when it comes to ourselves, we are far more critical. How I have learned to handle this in my own head is to change my internal conversation. I pretend that I am talking to a friend, or that a wise friend is talking to me. Suddenly the words I think to myself are much kinder and over time it has made a huge difference in how I feel about myself.

2. What seems like a curse to some is a longed-for blessing to others. There are women who would do anything to be able to have their body blemished by pregnancy. Some women are struggling with infertility, others with miscarriage. There are mamas who have had stillborn babies and who wished there was some stretch mark or loose skin or something to mark the fact that they became a mother. This logic follows through to general health, too. Some people think their legs are ugly, others wish their legs worked at all. This isn’t a competition for who has it worse and I don’t intend to make it seem that way, but it can be helpful to remember to keep your own worries in perspective. It can remind you to find beauty and wonder in what you do have.

3. There is no one right answer. There is no one right body shape and size. There seems to always be competition between moms (or women in general, really). One mom’s body doesn’t change too much after pregnancy. A second mom’s does, but she works very hard at eating a certain way and exercising a certain amount and she finds that her body eventually looks the way it did before. A third mom might be dealing with health issues that prevent her from exercising the way the second mom does, or she might be dealing with financial issues that prevent her from eating the way the second mom does and the result is that her body remains changed. Yet another mom might find that she simply prefers not to exercise or to be careful about her diet and that the way her body changed doesn’t bother her. And, of course, there are the moms who do all the things and their bodies still remain changed, at least in some way. All too often, we forget that the world is diverse and we see it only through our circumstances. It is helpful to eliminate judgment entirely and simply listen and offer support. Instead of saying, “You just need to work harder at making time!” Try to say, “You don’t have time to exercise? I know how busy you are! And you look beautiful as is!” No need to argue about details, just lift each other up. Trust that what other people say about their experiences is true for them, even if it isn’t for you.

4. Language is important. You might notice I try to phrase things carefully. I say “bodies that don’t change after pregnancy” instead of “bounced back” or “got her body back”. And I say “and you look beautiful” instead of “but you look beautiful.” Because words carry more meaning than just their dictionary definitions. We hear what people say to us through the tone of their voices and their expressions, but also through our own histories. By choosing words carefully you can avoid alienating someone or creating animosity in your relationship. By choosing words carefully, you can show compassion and let someone know they can trust you; in turn, maybe you can trust them back.

5. When we are brave enough to share a secret fear, we open the door to empowerment. That’s the crux of SOAM. I kept my fears secret for so long because I was afraid of being judged, but when I finally got brave enough to mention it to my friends, they joined the conversation in relief. I opened SOAM officially on July 5, 2006, and I asked my friends to share the link. I was worried it would fall flat on its face, but the world was full of isolated women, thirsty to know they weren’t alone. The website exploded and less than a month later I was getting calls from media giants like the London Guardian. In that month, I saw the face of the world changed – just a little, but changed nevertheless. Because the women who submitted their pictures to me were brave enough to do so. Coming together to talk about the scary things is one of the most powerful things we can do as humans.

Working with SOAM has changed my life completely. It’s given me an unexpected career I never could have dreamed up on my own, and it’s taught me compassion, perspective, understanding, kindness, and how to be brave. I hope, in turn, I can share these gifts with the world.

Idaho Representative Vito Barbieri asks if a camera women can swallow to show the state of their colons after colonoscopy could be used to prevent abortion.

Apparently, he does not understand the differences between the digestive system and the reproductive system.

YOU'RE FIRED, VITO.