Over here at the 'derby, we've talked plenty of smack about how it's impossible to escape the sancti-mommies. It starts from the moment folks find out that you're pregnant and never really ends until you're dead.
You'd think you'd at least get a reprieve while you're recovering from the actual birth. You'd be wrong.
My experience with my second baby was almost the same as Fed Up Mom's, whose letter to "Dear Prudence" at Slate today brought back unpleasant memories. Rather than explaining, I've found it's much easier to simply glare at Nosy Nancies as if you are deciding which part of their face to eat first. Others might prefer to be more direct on the subject of breastfeeding.
If I were the sort to have a column at Slate, my advice would be similar to Prudence's. I would, however, tell Fed Up Mom to not bother with the whole "medical condition" bit. Those who are going to judge your choices about breastfeeding won't believe you anyway. Better to save that energy for the next thing you'll be screwing up, like chosing plastic over cloth.
