On Breastfeeding

I have something to admit and it's pretty terrible. It's shameful and obnoxious, but it's the truth. So here it is:

I used to judge women who didn't breastfeed their babies.

This was, of course, before I actually became a mother myself. I realize there are dozens of reasons to feed a baby formula, medical or otherwise, and I didn't indiscriminately judge formula feeders across the board. I recognized that there are many very valid reasons to forgo breastfeeding in favor of formula, so it was just the women who chose formula, but who could otherwise breastfed, that I judged. I thought, so it's a little painful? Eh, toughen up. Or, it's inconvenient? Really? You're going to put your own needs ahead of what the medical community says is best for your baby? Maybe it's time to re-prioritize.

This was, as I mentioned, before I ever tried breastfeeding for myself.

I had always assumed that naturally I would breastfeed my children. Would I go the full 12 months recommended by the American Academy of Pediatrics? Maybe, maybe not. But I would definitely give it a good go. Nine, ten months at least. And it would come totally naturally to me and I would love doing it. Obviously.

And then Nicholas was born. The first few days weren't so bad. He had a good latch and we both seemed to be catching on pretty well. But several days in, things changed. I discovered that breastfeeding, for me at least, felt like 12,000 burning knives stabbing my nipples. Breastfeeding, as it turned out, was more difficult and painful for me than pregnancy, labor, and delivery combined -- times ten. And, suddenly, I was battling the urge to throw in the towel and pop open that free sample of formula buried in the back of his closet on an hourly basis.

I made deals with myself daily-- just get through today. Just make it to the end of the week. And, the golden beacon in the distance, when the pain would be gone: just make it to two months. On the one had, two months seemed pretty reasonable. A drop in the bucket of my lifetime. But, the reality is that babies eat 10-12 times per day, and there was just barely enough time in between feedings for the burning, throbbing sensation in my nipples to fade. I cried. I cried often. I cried from the pain, I cried in frustration, and I cried out of dread for the next feeding looming on my schedule.

But, as the books promised, the pain did begin to fade gradually. It went from excruciating, to really painful, to pretty uncomfortable over time. And around five weeks, I noticed that while the 12,000 burning knives sensation was gone, my son would feed for hours at a time-- and scream inconsolably whenever I tried to get up off the couch and do something, anything, else. After one marathon three hour feeding session, I finally decided to go see a lactation consultant.

She was so helpful, and I'm very glad I went. She examined Nicholas, weighed him with and without a diaper, watched closely as I fed him from both sides, and then weighed him again. Her conclusion was that I simply wasn't producing enough milk. Not by a long shot. He was underweight and it was only my stubbornness diligence about breastfeeding him on demand, for hours a day, that had kept him from becoming seriously underweight. She put me on a milk-making regime, but it was time to begin supplementing with formula. And I was more than fine with that.

Months have passed and Nicholas is now a healthy, chubby-cheeked, squishy baby. He's got delicious little rolls on his thighs, and a crease all the way around both wrists where his baby fat meets his plump little hands. I am still breastfeeding him about 90% of the time, but he gets a few bottles of formula a week. The pain is long gone, and I do appreciate the fact that I can feed him without a lot of fanfare around washing and sterilizing bottles or the expense of buying can after can of formula. But I still think about weaning him. He will be six months in just over a week-- a fact which astonishes me-- and sometimes I feel like I've put in enough of the good fight. I still struggle to produce enough milk, so I'm constantly monitoring my protein and fluid intake while supplementing with a witch's brew of herbs. On days when I'm just not making enough milk, he gets fussy and we both get frustrated. He's an active little guy, and most of our feeding sessions these days entail him pummeling me with his fists and feet while he eats. He's also still waking up several times a night and usually the only thing that can lull him back to sleep is my breast. Then there are those occasions when we're out in public and it would just be so nice to pull out a pre-prepared bottle rather than wrangle his kicking and writhing body under a nursing cover. And sometimes I just wish my body was my own again. Breastfeeding my son has turned out to be far more challenging than I ever expected.

But then there are moments like this evening, during a mid-summer thunder storm, when I nursed my son to sleep in a quiet, dim room while the rain cascaded off the eaves outside his window. His body heavy and warm in my arms. His breathing quiet and peaceful as he drifted off. That rosebud mouth and those soft little arms nuzzled up against me. These are the moments I want to remember. When I realize I'm in no rush to shed the vestiges of his babyhood. When I think, I could do this a little longer. And so I will. With proper appreciation for what my body requires to sustain a growing baby, with gratefulness to science and industry for creating a nutritious alternative or supplement to a mother's milk, and with respect for all women and their choices in how to nourish their babies.