While pregnant, I was routinely asked by other women (some of them friends, some of them strangers) if I planned on breastfeeding. My answer was always "I'd like to. But if it doesn't work, I won't be devastated."
It's amazing how a few months ... and becoming a mom... can completely change your perspective.
At the beginning I was floored at how well both L and I took to breastfeeding, considering she was a NICU baby and a week old before we really tried. I had been pumping with both my double electric and the NICU's pump every three hours, and even though it was unlike something I've ever done, I almost cried with happiness when the NICU nurses told me she was getting my milk through the feeding tube. At least I mother in my little way.
I vividly remember the day I was able to put her to my breast. She was 7 days old -- I sat in a wooden rocker with a Boppy on my lap, my shirt pulled down on one side, privacy curtains surrounding our NICU pod, with a lactation counselor at my side guiding the process. The second L's lips found my nipple and I could feel an unmistakable latch, I cried out "How does she know?!" The feeling was incredible. Before that moment, I couldn't really predict how it would feel. Would it hurt? Would it be awkward? But it wasn't either. It was me being a mom to this little girl who had only known bad things in her mouth like ventilators and plastic feeding tubes. It was the most natural feeling in the world to look down and see my baby girl at my breast.
The next day in our "demo room" breastfeeding didn't go as well because she was so sleepy. But she was still connected to her feeding tubes, so it was okay. The day after that, I had to prove that we could do this whole feeding successfully before they would let us go home. And we did great. The number of wet and dirty diapers told us so. Then we came home and I was on my own -- no feeding tube and nurses for backup.
I don't remember a lot about those first few weeks. Probably due to the sleep deprivation, PPD, PPA, and hormones. I remember feeling pretty topless all the time and leaking milk through my tank tops. While I was proud and amazed that I was able to feed my baby with nothing but my own body, I felt trapped and tethered. I couldn't leave the house without her for fear she'd be hungry. I'd take the quickest showers of my life, listening for her hunger cries. My anxiety shot through the roof while leaving the house, praying she wouldn't need to eat while we were out in public. I never knew if I was doing it right -- or ANYthing right. Should she have both sides? Do I have an overactive letdown? Is she gassy because of something I ate? Does she have a milk protein allergy? Is she comfort nursing? Is she getting enough hindmilk? When will I get time to pump if she's never off my boobs? The neverending questions made me even more crazy.
After the six week growth spurt, L was still hungry every hour on the hour, even though she had just finished eating 20 minutes before. Knowing that it was past the boundaries of a growth spurt, I went to a lactation counselor to do a weighed feeding. She had only passed two ounces. In addition, her weight wasn't going up the way it should. The two factors combined? Well, clearly I had been starving my child.
And then it hit. The devastation Pregnant Me thought I wouldn't feel. The feeling of utter failure -- both as a mom and a woman. How could I be failing at this when we started off so strong, against the odds? I immediately sought advice from fellow mom friends. While they gave me invaluable advice, I couldn't shake the feeling of guilt and disappointment. I'd have to start supplementing and pumping to try to boost my supply. All the information I had read and heard peripherally came flooding over me. "Breast is best" ran through my head on a loop. I couldn't give my precious baby the "best." Now she'd be at risk for a slew of health conditions. Scary ones like heart disease, cancer, obesity! What kind of mother was I?
I didn't understand how this triple feeding would all work. I tried a few things that week to figure out how to accomplish my goal of increasing my milk production and feeding her at the same time. But I stopped nursing directly so I could measure exactly how many ounces she was taking in. I referred to her formula bottles as "poison" and winced every time I gave her a bottle. After two weeks, her weight shot up almost a whole pound, which only reinforced for me how much she'd been "starving" before that.
Eight weeks of exclusively pumping, save for overnight nursing sessions, later, my supply slowly dwindled further from 12 ounces to 8 ounces a day, pumping 6 times a day. I'm guessing I could blame going back to work for that, but who really knows. Apparently my 34H boobs really were for decoration and not function after all. I felt completely chained to the pump, always stressed out if I went over 3 hours between pumps and having to race home from errands to pump and figure out how to entertain L while I pumped in the evenings. And since we had finally found a formula that agreed with her, I became "okay" with that being her primary food source and my breastmilk as her "medicine."
But as I faced with the idea of my breastfeeding journey being completely over, I couldn't stop the tears from flowing. What about our overnight nursing session? That 20 minutes of her lying down next to me, my body feeding her little body as she dozed back into slumber, inhaling that hot, salty baby head smell. It was the only tie I had left back to those early newborn days, the days in which I always joked about giving her "boobie sandwiches."
Even in the weeks I was only able to pump a mere two ounces a day (two pumping sessions), I couldn't let go of that early morning nursing time. I end up giving her a bottle after, so it's becoming a pretty pointless endeavor, but I fought. While I struggled with the feelings of "boobie sandwich nostalgia" and a disappointment that's hard to shake, I knew that I was doing was best for her and best for me.
A few days after she turned 4 months old, she rejected the overnight nursing. And then we were done.
Now I'm able to spend more time with her instead of worrying about pumping and therefore more accepting of the where my breastfeeding journey has taken us. Even though I couldn't make it to my six-month goal, I busted my butt (too much, undoubtedly) and didn't give up.
So even though I'm not giving my baby "the best" baby food, I am giving her the best of me.
