Who doesn’t love breast milk? After all, it’s recommended by the American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP) that mothers breast-feed exclusively for the first year of their child’s life. Studies show that breast milk can guard infants against diarrhea, ear infections, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, diabetes, obesity and asthma, as well as prevent illness throughout childhood.

Despite this rave review — which my son greedily seconds — my experience at the UW has been that perhaps not everybody loves breast-feeding after all.

Last September, I began my graduate program as a temporarily single mom while my husband was working overseas. As a result, any extracurricular activities I attended always involved me plus one. The one was a 6-month-old boy who loved attention and moo juice — and had no hang-ups about who was nearby when the dinner bell rang.

My son came to picnics and meetings, and, in a pinch, the occasional rescheduled class. He also came to happy hour. In a world where my home life consisted of no grown-up companionship, or even a TV to bask in the glow of, the fact that my school had a bi-monthly happy hour was a welcome opportunity to meet my peers, find out what classes to take and eat food that wasn’t prepackaged at Trader Joe’s. The organizers were nice enough to select locations that were family-friendly, and had highchairs and an all-ages policy. This of course didn’t change the fact that I had a baby in a bar.

The United States is comparatively prudish when it comes to nursing in public; in many countries (including most of Europe), it’s a fairly normal phenomenon.

When I fed my son at the table, he operated for the most part below the radar, except for the occasional loud burp or smacking sound. Some people were quite surprised when I switched sides that there was a baby there at all. When they did realize that there was a woman at their very table exposing herself (under a blanket), and using her curves for something other than getting to the front of the line at a club. The expressions I saw were ones of surprise and discomfort. It was similar to a wedding in which the best man calls the bride a whore and then vomits all over his tuxedo during the toast. No one knew where to look, or if it was appropriate to laugh. Once the surprise wore off, people handled the situation in one of three ways.

The first way was very La Leche League-friendly. People complimented me on choosing to nurse, and continued our conversation as if nothing strange was occurring. For those of you who don’t know, this is the correct behavior.

The second way was a mix of revulsion and intense curiosity. This happened anywhere I breastfed. There was always at least one person who couldn’t look away, as if the bundle under my shawl was a terrible car crash. Sometimes there was a creepy jealous element to this curiosity. While this probably would have been a normal response for a 2-year-old, when the person was a fascinated man of driver’s license age or above, I became a bit uncomfortable. Questions ensued in voices that grew less and less ironic: “What does breast milk taste like?” “Can I have some?” “What would it do if I put it in my coffee?” This next question was my favorite: “Were there super powers to breast milk that the AAP did not advertise on its Web site?”

I can imagine their slogan: “Breast milk causes increase in LSAT scores” or “New cure for hangover: Mix two parts human milk with one part Pepto Bismol.” When I pumped at school, I stored milk in a communal fridge. I wonder, to this day, if anybody ever used some for their coffee, accidentally or on purpose.

The third reaction was simply undiluted revulsion. One friend suggested that I feed my son in a toilet stall. Good plan: teach my son to read in a graffiti-soaked stall as I spend 20 minutes trying not to touch the walls while feeding him.

Just because people have invented iPods does not make us any less a part of the mammal family. Our young need milk, and it (unlike cosmetic surgery or hair extensions) is a natural and healthy phenomenon.

Another friend, Ben, grew up on a dairy farm in Idaho, and his criticisms were more economic in nature. At 6-foot-something and probably the recipient of near-perfect GRE scores, Ben is a proud product of formula feeding (proving that those who don’t breast-feed can also have lovely children). He wanted to know why I would take jobs away from hardworking Midwestern cows in this time of economic downturn.

What can I say? Outsourcing is a bitch.