Before becoming a mom, I was relatively indifferent when it
came to breastfeeding. I was a formula
fed baby but I had no big ideals that swayed me one way or the other. I figured I’d give it a go but if it didn’t
work out, we’d switch to formula. At the end of the day, it was about finding
the best way to give my baby the sustenance it needed.
My little girl was just minutes old the first time I
breastfed her. It wasn’t magical and no sparks
flew. However, I was amazed that by mere instinct, two novices were able to get
things lined up right so I was actually feeding
her with something from my body.
It absolutely blew my mind.
It turned out things weren’t quite so perfect that first
feed and I ended up sore for days because of it. While I was in the hospital, I asked a midwife
for help every time my daughter needed to eat.
Usually a modest person, I stripped from the waste up and let them show
me what to do. It was still awkward, but
by the time I left I was relatively confident I could continue with breast
feeding when I got home.
Then came DAY FOUR.
The day my milk came in. I was
exhausted and an emotional disaster and at some point my daughter forgot how to
latch on.
I sent a text message to my sister and she called with some
life (sanity) saving ideas.
Within five minutes, baby was eating like a champ. I will be forever thankful for that phone
call. I am also grateful it worked out
that easily for me. Feeding problem
solved.
(Day four was one of the worst days of
my life. Someday, when I am ready, it will likely form its own post)
But it was tiring. While I had figured out the basics of
breastfeeding, each session still took several attempts before she was actually
eating. According to my birthing class, feeding
time was best for forming the bond with my new child so I spent each meal watching
my daughter, trying to memorize her face, feeling her tiny little fingers, stroking
her cheek to wake her when she dozed off.
My body did seem to instinctually respond to this. The more I engaged my daughter, the more milk
I seemed to produce. Her meals often began with milk spurting uncontrollably
out of me like someone had stuck a pin in an over filled water balloon. She’d stop, sputtering and coughing, turning her
head away. It was frustrating and humiliating to have to sit there, with a
cloth clamped to my nipple until it calmed down enough for my daughter to
continue her meal.
I’d wake up in the morning, my breasts so engorged they
didn’t look or feel normal anymore. I’d have to hand express a bit before my
lady could start her morning feed. I
felt completely out of control of my own body. My entire existence seemed to be
to make and to deliver milk.
I began expressing milk when my daughter was six weeks old.
If anything, this reinforced my feeling that I was nothing more than a milk
machine because now, when I wasn’t feeding my daughter, I was pumping. Sterilizing
bottles, labelling freezer bags, defrosting the next night’s feed, and rotating
the ‘stock’ was added to my daily routine.
It was monotonous and exhausting.
As the months rolled by and the routine began to feel ‘normal,’
switching to formula seemed like it would just add more work. I was battling insomnia
and exhaustion so sacrificing precious moments of rest to prepare a morning
bottle sounded like hell. I decided I’d
rather sit in my zombie state for the twenty boring minutes while she ate. Plus, it was saving us money. It was months
after my “must return to work” date, and I was still job hunting. It seemed
silly to add an extra expense as long as my body was instinctually producing
what my baby needed.
I also felt I had an obligation to my daughter to feed her
for the first year. It was no longer
about me finding a connection with my baby but just trying to do one thing
right for her. If for some reason, I wouldn’t be around for a feed, I made sure
to express, worried that my milk would dry up if I skipped just one time. I would express at night for an hour or more,
just to collect (my skewed definition of) a reasonable
amount of milk. There were days when I
had little or no appetite and my milk production would suffer. I’d beat myself
up for it, crying at the measly amount I’d managed to collect. Clogged ducts were disgusting and painful but
I expressed my way through several of them, determined to have everything in
working order for my baby girl.
This sense of obligation was bordering on obsession and part
of me knew it but couldn’t stop. If a
friend of mine had told me she thought her child would wither and die if she
were to have formula instead of breast milk, I would have laughed and shook my
head at such nonsense. Yet I was certain this is exactly what would happen if I
my girl were to miss out on the nutritious gold top (as my health visitor chose
to describe it) my mammary glands produced. I was so consumed with guilt over
not connecting with her that I felt the least I could do was continue to
breastfeed.
I can honestly say I didn’t enjoy breastfeeding, even if I did
give her breastmilk for a year. Expressing was a lot of work but in a lot of
ways it was easier for me than feeding her. I was happy to give the bottle to
anyone who wanted to feed her and I was relieved that she couldn’t care less
who held it as long as she got her milk.
I felt tremendously guilty for this and tried to make up for
it when actually breastfeeding. For a
long time I clung to the fact that we were connecting on a primal level even if
I couldn’t feel it consciously. I needed that.
Providing nutrition for her was my way of saying I was sorry for not
being the mom she deserved. Health visitors and counsellors kept telling me it
showed strength that I was still breast feeding. I didn’t believe it but I
wanted it to be true. Stopping wasn’t an option.
I started weaning little miss at about ten months. By a year we were down to just the morning
feed. A few weeks later, I stopped
breastfeeding all together. The bottle
was gone a week after that. It’s been
cow’s milk in cups since. All in all, it
was a painless transition. I was so happy for that chapter to be over. It was like a weight had been lifted off my
shoulders.
I don’t feel like this now. I’m glad I managed to feed her
for a year, but I wonder why I felt the need to put that pressure on myself
when I was dealing with so much. I have
not once felt guilty about weaning her when I did and I can’t help but wonder
what took me so long. I wish I could
have recognized that the world (or my daughter) wouldn’t crumble if I’d stopped.
There is more to motherhood than milk.
