You’d think in 2025 people would be over it by now. But no. Breastfeeding in public is still the spectacle of the century. I sit down with my baby, pull out a cover (or sometimes not, depending on how much energy I have that day), and suddenly the world slows down like I just announced a Broadway show.
Moms know the stares. The double-takes. The “oh, I wasn’t looking” look. And then there’s the classic: men who suddenly need to walk past the same exact spot… nine times. Like, sir, what’s over here? Is there a magical doorway to Narnia behind me? Or do you just think I won’t notice your little loop-de-loop?
I try to keep my sense of humor about it. Once, I was at a park bench in South Beach, nursing Anthony, and this one guy literally tripped over his flip-flops because he was too busy pretending not to look. I almost applauded. That’s Olympic-level awkward right there. Rex caught it and gave me this smirk like, “people are ridiculous,” before handing Nico another juice box.
And don’t get me started on the moms who get the side-eye from other women. Like, sister, you’ve either been here or you’ve had friends who’ve been here. Why the judgment? Do you think I’m just sitting here for fun? No one whips out their boob at Publix because it’s their idea of a wild afternoon.
But here’s the thing: babies don’t wait. They don’t care that we’re in line at Target, or that we just got our food at the café, or that the beach is packed. Hungry is hungry, and those lungs can scream loud enough to get us evicted from polite society if I don’t act fast. Honestly, breastfeeding in public is less about making a statement and more about survival. Feed the baby, save my sanity, keep my eardrums intact.
Sometimes I’ll try to cover up, and then Anthony yanks it off like we’re doing a Vegas strip act. Or he kicks his little foot so hard that the cover flaps around like a sail in the wind. Very discreet. Totally invisible. Nothing to see here, folks! Meanwhile, I’m sweating bullets trying to keep my shirt semi-together, and Nico’s yelling about needing more Goldfish. It’s chaos. But it’s our chaos.
And you know what? I’m tired of apologizing for it. Tired of ducking into bathrooms or hot cars or weird corners like I’m doing something scandalous. There’s nothing scandalous about feeding a kid. There’s nothing inappropriate about keeping a tiny human alive. If someone doesn’t like the view, they can look at literally anything else. (Like their phone. Like everyone else in Miami does 99% of the time.)
It’s funny, though, how my perspective’s shifted. When I had Nico, I used to get nervous—like, “oh no, people will stare.” Now, with Anthony, I’m more like, “yeah, he’s eating, and so am I, pass the fries.” Maybe that’s what experience does: you just stop caring. Or maybe I’ve just reached the level of mom where embarrassment doesn’t exist anymore. These kids have stripped me of my dignity in so many ways that breastfeeding in public is the least of my worries.
At the end of the day, the stares don’t really stop me. If anything, they remind me that people still have a lot of growing up to do. I’ve got kids to raise, snacks to pack, sunscreen to apply, and way too many loads of laundry waiting at home to spend energy worrying about some guy circling the Starbucks patio like a confused pigeon.
So yes, I’ll breastfeed in public. I’ll do it at the park, on the beach, in the grocery store, wherever my kid decides he’s hungry. And if you see me out there, just smile, maybe wave, and for the love of coffee—don’t make it weird.