I don’t think I’ve ever been more apprehensive about anything in my life.

Breastfeeding is a bizarre concept. Fun Bags, Titties, Dirty Pillows. Until you have a baby, they’re just as they are – lovely, funny, perfectly female – a body part in line with all the rest. Once you get pregnant, they become something entirely new: a Food Source. Milk with which to feed your young. They're sacred. It's a bosom's highest calling.

Thank goodness Evan knew what to do.

He has a vigorous and grateful appetite, just like his dad. Even in the hospital, he gulped and gorged with abandon – what a sight. For the first six weeks I had terrible kinks in my neck from staring down at him in amazement as he ate.

It took some getting used to. Pulls and grabs and toe-curling ouches and swelling and spraying and public displaying. But it didn’t take long for all inhibitions to disappear in the interest of getting the job done no matter where and when. And there are so many rewards. Milk moustaches and spit-ups that go SPLAT! on the floor and triplings of weight. All from me and my booby food.

My milk is Tutti-Fruiti. Which just so happens to be Evan’s favourite flavour. What a coincidence.