A brief digression from all the food talk, if you’ll allow…
In today’s New York Times, there’s a profile of lactation consultant Freda Rosenfeld. She is a goddess, people. This is the woman who, after four previous LCs couldn’t figure out what Harry and I were doing wrong, was able to fix our problems. To help Harry’s latch and suck, she taught us baby-mouth exercises to do with him, including one Freda called the “Jim Carrey” (picture his ridiculously huge mouth in The Mask). To help my supply, I drank a mixture of herbal teas and tinctures she concocted for me. She diagnosed my thrush when my OB hadn’t a clue, and then helped me cure it. And I called her every morning for a good two weeks, until we had all our problems addressed.
When I was crying every day (literally–those hormones are ridic) and afraid I was going to fly off into the ether, Freda tethered me to the ground. At the same time, she did the same thing for probably a dozen other women, yet somehow made me feel like she was always there when I needed her. Even while she was in Israel for the High Holy Days, Freda was unavailable only for the days when observance required it; otherwise, we communicated via email.
A few months ago, I had the distinct pleasure of taking Freda out for lunch. I wanted her guidance for the galactagogues chapter of Parents Need to Eat Too, my new cookbook. We spent 90 minutes talking about what kinds of foods are helpful, what kinds she knows from experience are helpful even though there’s absolutely no science to prove it, and oh so much more.
I love this woman. If you’re having trouble breastfeeding, call her RIGHT NOW.
That is all.