This is a long one-- so it'll be a two- parter.
There are lots of mom- wars out there--- let your kid cry it out, or tend to him?; use organic baby food, or go for the cheaper stuff?-- but perhaps none has stood the test of the battle as sturdily as the war of breast or bottle feeding.
When I was prego with Mabel, I didn't really know about the war at first. I knew I could boob- feed her, or I could, as my mother did for us, give her a bottle with formula. I did some preliminary research and was scared into submission. All I could gather from the many sites I slogged through was, "You better breastfeed this kid, or you'll eff her up for life." I decided I would therefore try it. But since I was still a little scared, I didn't even buy a pump, wanting to see first if I could or would commit.
In the hospital, the nurses were helpful in getting Mabel to my teat in the proper way. I remember being half- asleep, and they'd wheel her into the room in her little cart and prop her up, getting that perfect latch accomplished for me. She fed on schedule and was well- nourished, though I was having trouble doing the latches myself and was becoming sore. When trouble arose, I just rang that handy bell and in came a nurse who had the know- how. I remember one saying, "If this is too much, consider supplementing. Being a first- timer is really hard." I thought, Okay, but I think I should be able to get this down.
WRONG. Nervous to abandon my support system, I left the hospital terrified of being on my own with these "perfect latches." Mabel would cry and we'd go into the bedroom where I'd try to get her comfy on the Boppy pillow in the cross- cradle position she seemed to like. I'd tickle her mouth with the nipple, as I'd been advised, and look for the BIG gape. I knew I had to, in that millisecond, get her to latch down. Boom, her mouth would close down, and about 50 percent of the time, I'd be thinking, They said it should not be pain, just pressure. Is this pain or pressure? I don't know... Still, she seemed to be enjoying the experience so I would go with it, but most times, Mabel would come off a teat that looked like a dog's chew toy. Not my best work, but I'll get it next time. I was determined indeed.
It was probably about our third or fourth day home and I was obsessing over how much Mabel was getting at each feed. They said I should hear a swallow-- was that a swallow? They said there should not be a clicking-- was that a click, or a swallow? Why is she hungry every 30 minutes? My mom, a new mother of the late 1970s, was tireless in her pursuit of getting me to quit it and "Just fill her poor belly with some formula, for crying out loud!" But that damn guilt. What if she got Rubella because I didn't breastfeed?
And so we kept on. Now my nipples were cracked and sore and one was bloody. I was beginning to dread each feed. I was struggling with post- partum anxiety and had no appetite, so my milk supply was terrible. At this point, I decided I needed a pump. I went out to the baby store and cried the entire 20 minutes in the car-- I guess because I felt I was screwing up royally, and didn't get why all this seemed so easy for everyone else.
I'd sit in our oversized chair with the two milking devices attached to my teats, and it was truly the end of romance when J had to come over and push my boobs downward to get the milk to flow. Sometimes I would get 2 or 3 ounces-- if I was lucky. I tried hydrating more, and even bought Mother's Milk tea... but the situation was status- quo. No pun intended, I sucked at this.
It was a Friday and I was sleep- deprived and completely out of my head with every emotion I could ever feel zig- zagging around when I finally lost my marbles. I recall that my mom was there, and she and J launched a full- on "Give yourself a break" campaign. J said, "How about if we just give her a little formula?" I relented because I was that tired.
My mother bought Similac and fed Mabel a bottle while I slept. And then J fed her some more. All I can remember is that I slept and slept, and J said Mabel did too.
From there, we did combination feeding, but the more we supplemented, the less milk my body could produce. I was down to a few drops per pump or at- breast feeding. Mabel was starving and restless; I wasn't getting anything close to a "perfect latch" with her; I was still chapped and cracked; and all I wanted was for her to be healthy and happy. Shortly after, the pediatrician told us she needed to gain more weight, and that I looked "haggard and tired." (She was my pedi too, so she can talk to me like that without it being weird.) "The most important thing here is for Mabel to thrive," she reminded me, "and for you to be a present and healthy mom. You decide, but there's no sense in torturing yourself."
I pumped out the last little bits of breast milk I had and called it a day. In the immediate moment, I didn't feel guilt-- just relief. Mabel would gain weight. We would all sleep. My hormones would take a break and I'd feel better. And so it went for a month or so, when I got into some guilt- inducing reading that made me feel terrible about my choice.
In a fit of self- fury, I flew over to the GNC store at the mall up the street and bought more of the tea and two supplements for re- lactation. I was determined to make my boobs fill again. I pumped once an hour, painfully so, but wanted to jump back on the breastfeeding train more than anything, convinced that I had failed Mabel and she was about to develop every disease and allergy under the sun.
You can imagine how this newest endeavor went. And in time, I had to let it go. She was gaining weight beautifully, we were all getting sleep, and J was participating in feedings, which was probably the best part. People told me over and over that I shouldn't feel bad, but the guilt never really went away. And so when I got pregnant again, I swore I'd do better. I bought a 300 dollar pump this time and got myself ready for a whole new b- feeding experience.
To be continued...
