When Henry was born the nurse said, Drink lots of water so the milk will come in and I did, I drank liters and liters of water. I drank beer, too—we were in Belgium and everyone believed that beer was good for milk, and I drank Champagne—friends brought some to the hospital room, since everyone knows that Champagne brings your milk—and after all of this my breasts filled like balloons and felt as if, like balloons, they might burst.

Henry was, for his part, a very hungry baby: He ate frequently, seriously, until my nipples bled and I cried while he ate and cried thinking about him eating. Even after this period was over, when I could feed him comfortably and my breasts were merely enormous, they were enough to inspire a man passing me, as I carried Henry in his Baby Bjorn down the Chaussée de Waterloo, to shout after us, Il a la chance! I shouted back, in French, What? He repeated himself, and I understood that he meant that my baby was lucky to be lying there, resting on my breasts. Then I knew that the things happening within my body were not there for me, or even for my son, but for the interest and education of the world.