I'm back. One kid is playing with a toy in the bouncer chair, and the other is eating a snack while watching Caillou. We will see how this goes...
So, back to the breastfeeding trials...
As I indicated, I really, really wanted to make boob- feeding work this time around. I ordered that pricy pump and said, "I learned a lot the first time. I have to eat and drink a LOT. And I have to pump a lot to get milk. Maybe this baby will just be an easier breastfeeder-- a better latcher-- and maybe I will be better too."
When she arrived, Dottie was of course hungry, as they all are. The nurse had asked me beforehand if I would be formula or breastfeeding, so when Dottie emerged they knew to put her to my breast minutes after. My kind nurse reminded me of the method: wait for the gape, close down, hold. If it hurts, it's wrong; if you feel pressure, it's right. Try the cross- cradle, and if not, the football hold.
In the elation of just having given birth, I was convinced all was good in the land of feeding. Dottie fed from each boob and seemed satisfied. Of course, in those early days, it's the early milk-- the colostrum, or the "liquid gold" that I am apparently supposed to be very grateful my kids both had. Dottie had a good first day and night-- the nurses brought her in to feed, and just as with Mabel, they helped me get her onto breast well. The second night, she seemed very hungry, very often. One of my favorite nurses decided I should pump since I wasn't producing enough to fill her; the theory is that milk begets milk, so pump and feed, pump and feed, and you'll be able to pump and feed.
That nurse came back, though, and told me they were out of pump tubes. "Let's just try to feed her at breast again," she suggested. I was still on cloud nine, and still willing to do whatever. The summary is that we left the hospital with Dottie thriving.
I remember getting to my parents' house after leaving the hospital, as we had to pick up Mabel, and I fed Dottie on their couch for a while. She was clearly sucking, and I don't think making the clicking noise. Good, I thought. This is already going better. My nipple was starting to look like a used lipstick, which I knew it was not supposed to post- feeds, but we were going with it.
A few days later, when Dottie was about a week old, I set up the pump. My boobs were sore-- one of them being scarily full and not diminishing. Lo and behold, the pump helped. And thus began my regiment of "the machine," as Mabel called it. I had my little pumping station set up by the fire place. Mabel would help me with the cups and it became even a little fun. I alternated feeding Dottie at breast and via pumped milk. Her weight looked fine at her first couple appointments, and I met with the lactation consultant at one of them. I told her about the chapped and sore nipples, and the fact that I still wasn't sure whether I was feeling pain or pressure. She recommended that I buy a nipple ointment available only at old- fashioned apothecaries, as Lanolin "would not work" to heal them. Huh? Do we even have an apothecary nearby? I am just gonna have to suck the pain up.
Meanwhile, we were going through some horrible digestion issues with Dottie. Her gas was so bad that she would scream when pushing gas or a poop out. She began pooping so often that she got the worst diaper rash I have ever seen in my life. She was pooping literally every 30 minutes. And when she would feed, she would often writhe in pain, and arch her back to the heavens. The pedi felt she had a case of acid reflux, and that we could wait it out or decide to treat it. The misery of all this, and my hating to see her feel sick, caused us to add formula-- but we had not yet given up on breastfeeding. I kept at the boob and the pump all the while. She was drinking about 60 percent boob milk and 40 percent formula.
And then came the night of the red... I was waking myself to pump in the night, or else my boobs were in such pain that I wanted to cut them off. I also wanted to keep up a good supply. And so, on this one night, I woke at 3 to pump. I was in the dim living room with only the light of the TV to guide me. My left nipple was beyond pained at this point, and the boob became engorged because I was scared to feed from that side. I pumped for a few minutes and could hear the cup filling, but I couldn't see the white of the milk. Hmm, that's curious. I brought the cup to the TV for light, and there it was-- 2 ounces of blood, with a tinge of milk. I nearly vomited. Somehow I was courageous enough to pump the other side; I got straight- up milk there and went to bed for a few.
The next day on the phone, the lactation nurse told me that I SHOULD FEED DOTTIE THE BLOOD TINGED WITH MILK. Nope, you can't make this shiz up. She told me it was healthy, and she would not be harmed. I promptly told this nutbag that I had discarded the blood- milk, and at this point was truly worried about myself and my breasts. She said it sounded like the chappedness of the nipple gave, and that's why it bled. Or, the engorgement may have been to blame, But that in a couple days time, I should be back to bloodless milk. Ho. Ly. Crap.
When I thought of quitting, there was that damned, dogged guilt. I was chock- full of post- partum anxiety again, and the tears just streamed and streamed. In the midst of all this, J was taking two evening classes, leaving me home alone with a toddler and newborn every Monday and Wednesday night. During the day, I had Mabel and Dottie home with me on Tuesdays and Fridays. Utter tiredness was simply kicking in. I was a mess, but I didn't want to give up, despite the reassurances from several friends, and even the pediatrician.
Once again, the pedi supported me in whatever decision I made. She told me, again, that the important thing would be for the baby to thrive, and for me to be a happy and attentive mom. I continued to pump-- feeding was too painful and wasn't yielding much milk. The pumping went on for another week after that point. My original goal was to give Dottie boob milk for two months. I knew, though, that to tend to my family properly, take care of my anxiety and fatigue, and heal my freaking boob, I would need to relent. Dottie would ultimately get boob milk for over a month, but I wouldn't meet my original two- month goal.
When I felt that I was ready to stop, I chatted with two friends who never boob- fed at all, and two friends who had very briefly tried it but had problems and stopped. Their support was overwhelming. And I know all their kids, who are just fine despite the formula- food.
The funny thing is that this time, despite the determination, I felt better about quitting than I did with Mabel. Maybe it was because I knew I had given it all I had. Maybe it was because I knew Dottie's stomach issues were so much better on a sensitive formula. Maybe it was because we were all sleeping a little more. Maybe it was because I didn't feel as depressed and anxious. Maybe I just had a gut feeling that I had to do what I had to do.
Dottie's stomach issues were far from over. We went through four different formulas-- and even tried thickening via cereal. We were very close to going to Prilosec. Around 3 months, her feeding issues improved noticeably, and by 5 months they were all but gone.
And so here I am, being, for the most part, a formula feeder for my two kids. I still go through pangs of guilt and worry. I become nervous that there's some essential what- have- you that they didn't get enough of. I worry that something is wrong with ME that I couldn't get this to work well. But then I stop myself and remind myself that I COULD have kept going. It's not that I was ill- suited for the job, as I have felt from time to time. I am not lacking a mother gene. When I stopped this time around, I was confident. I knew in my heart of hearts I had done what I could, and since Dottie's health is the most important thing to me in all this, I had done what would honor that importance.
More and more, I hear of people who have chosen not to b- feed or have struggled with it. I do think it comes more naturally to some people than others. I 100 -percent believe that some of us suffer with post- partum depression/ anxiety more than others, and this constant feeding business becomes too much. Not to mention, the strain on the body can be catastrophic. Right now, my Dottie is bouncing away in her Exersaucer after having downed a bottle of "poison," as some would have you believe. Hard to believe she's suffering when I hear her squealing for joy and throwing her toys up.
I also don't mean to sound haughty about bottle- feeding, either, though. How to feed your baby is the most personal choice you make when it comes to a newborn. Let people choose and enjoy, Live and let be. I have to tell myself this mantra if the guilt seeps in. The good news is, as opposed to the Mabel days, that dang guilt is rare.
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