I have visions sometimes. I dreamed of an old Japanese wooden house, where a young mother was breastfeeding her daughter. Breastfeeding until 3 is very normal here. We don’t know where the father was, in my vision. The mother felt she had been knocked by a truck after giving birth. She had no idea how hard the pregnancy and labor would be. She didn’t know that she would bleed for weeks after the birth. She had no idea her iron levels could take up to 18 months to replenish.
So she’s lying there, in heaven with her baby, who is now 2. And she’s still breastfeeding. The baby gets all the food it needs from her body. The mother gets food from men and neighbors, and whoever is around. Maybe her mother drops by. Perhaps her sister in law brings some cooking in pots. She likes fruit best. Strawberries and melons. Mangoes too. Hard to find and expensive.
Suddenly some English social workers arrive. Where is the father? is the first question asked. Why are you still breastfeeding? Don’t you work? How do you provide for yourself?
A declaration is declared. Unfit mother.
The child is ripped from the mother’s arms and put up for adoption.
Shortly afterwards the mother, of course, commits suicide by drinking copious amounts of sake and throwing herself from the roof.