My extended essay is due tomorrow

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My extended essay is due tomorrow

I moved to Mongolia when my first child was four months old, and lived there until he was three. Raising my son during those early years in a place where attitudes to breastfeeding are so dramatically different from prevailing norms in North America opened my eyes to an entirely different vision of how it all could be.

But minutes after my son, Calum, popped out, he latched on, and for the next four years seemed pretty determined not to let go. I was lucky, for in many ways breastfeeding came easily—never a cracked nipple, rarely an engorged breast. Mentally, things were not quite as simple.

As much as I loved my baby and cherished the bond that breastfeeding gave us, it was, at times, overwhelming. I was unprepared for the magnitude of my love for him, and for the intensity of his need for me and me only—for my milk.

But I would run through all the possible reasons for his crying—gas? I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Then I moved away from Canada to Mongolia, where my husband was conducting a wildlife study.

My extended essay is due tomorrow

When a package murmurs, a nipple is popped in its mouth. Definitely no tummy time. At three months, Canadian babies are already having social engagements, even swimming. But in Mongolia, though babies might cry for many reasons, there is only ever one solution: I settled down on my butt and followed suit.

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This private activity between mother and child is greeted with a hush and politely averted eyes, and regarded almost in the same way as public displays of intimacy between couples: Their universal practice of breastfeeding anywhere, anytime, and the close quarters in which most Mongolians live, mean that everyone is pretty familiar with the sight of a working boob.

They were happy to see I was doing things their way which was, of course, the right way. When I breastfed in the park, grandmothers would regale me with tales of the dozen children they had fed. When I breastfed in the back of taxis, drivers would give me the thumbs-up in the rearview mirror and assure me that Calum would grow up to be a great wrestler.

When I walked through the market cradling my feeding son in my arms, vendors would make a space for me at their stalls and tell him to drink up. Instead of looking away, people would lean right in and kiss Calum on the cheek.

If he popped off in response to the attention and left my streaming breast completely exposed, not a beat was missed.

No one stared, no one looked away—they just laughed and wiped the milk off their noses. From the time Calum was four months old until he was three years old, wherever I went, I heard the same thing over and over again: Nothing gets a child to sleep as quickly, relieves the boredom of a long car journey as well, or calms a breaking storm as swiftly as a little warm milk from mummy.

But the Mongolians took it one step further. It was enlightening to compare our different parenting techniques. Whenever a tussle over toys broke out between our two-year-olds, my first reaction would be to try to restore peace by distracting Calum with another toy while explaining the principle of sharing.

But this took a while and had a success rate of only about 50 percent. The other times, when Calum was unwilling to back down and his frustration escalated to near boiling point, I would pick him up and cradle him in my arms for a feed.

Tsetsgee had a different approach. Not to be outdone, I adopted the same strategy. There we were, two mothers flapping our breasts like competing strippers trying to entice a client.

In my prenatal class in small-town Canada, where Calum was born, breastfeeding had been introduced with a video showing a particularly sporty-looking Swedish mother breastfeeding her toddler while out skiing. A shudder ran through the group: I kept my counsel.

It was my turn to be surprised when one of my new Mongolian friends told me she had breastfed until she was nine years old. I was so jaw-dropped, flabbergasted that at first I dismissed it as a joke.Sat writing up a history essay after last nights technical 'fault'.

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Exactly how I feel too. Though I did not fully understand the madness that is humans driving a car in a city as a transportation method before I took my drivers licence course.

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Gun control . Corey Robin mentioned sexual harassment to invoke an indefensible idea that turned out to have defenders; I fear this essay does the same. The BHLs are conflicted about far simpler questions like “can you contract yourself into slavery?”, so the answer to “what manner of rights do they believe are inalienable by contract?” is “very, very close to .

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