Deciding to breastfeed was easy.
Doing it was an entirely different story.
When I became pregnant with my first daughter, the decision to breastfeed was a no-brainer for me.
I heard from my OB-GYN at Kaiser and read information from the Sonoma County Breastfeeding Coalition and mom-friendly websites like kellymom.com about all the benefits of breastfeeding: breast milk is the perfect food for babies; breastfeeding creates a special bond between baby and mom; breastfeeding burns calories, helping moms shed baby weight; breastfeeding releases feel-good oxytocin hormones that can help combat issues like post partum depression.
It all sounded great to me.
That said, after my first daughter, now 3, was born I realized I had no idea how to breastfeed. There she was, on my chest, eyes shut tight, mouth open like a guppy, wanting to be nourished and comforted.
I shoved my breast into her gaping mouth; she sort of bobbed around unsuccessfully before getting really, really angry.
We both cried.
Luckily, a lactation consultant helped out, teaching me the proper way to get a latch, how to hold her and how to know when she was done nursing. It took me a full day to get it right.
That’s when I realized that breastfeeding is easier said than done.
First there was the engorgement: my breasts got scary big, terribly painful and rock hard two days after giving birth, requiring an emergency trip to Target to buy new (bigger) nursing bras and camisoles.
Because I nursed my daughter for her first 12 hours on a bad latch, I dealt with cracked and blistered nipples for nearly two weeks. The shocking pain I felt when she nursed took away the happy feeling I was supposed to get.
Once the blisters subsided, I had to figure out my production. I didn’t know it at first, but I make milk like a cow (read: a lot).
Once the engorgement died down, I had to figure out a rhythm with my daughter to help my production naturally coincide with her needs. If we went too long between sessions, my let down — when milk ejects from the milk ducts — would be like a fire hose, spraying and choking her until she gasped, hiccupped and eventually vomited.
At night, if we slept longer than usual, I’d wake up either in engorged pain or lopsided and drenched.
Honestly, it took about six months to find a rhythm. Despite the frustration, pain and sacrifice, I loved it. I loved being anywhere and having the ability to feed and comfort my daughter. I loved the bond we formed, our hearts beating together as we nourished each other physically and emotionally.
Then, at nine months, I had to stop.
Despite the constant flow of oxytocin, post partum depression slammed me hard. After a breakdown, I spent a week in recovery at Marin General Hospital, where I was prescribed three medications that weren’t compatible with breastfeeding.
When my daughter and husband visited me on the third day I was in the hospital, I nursed her for the very last time, tears running down my cheeks, splashing gently onto hers.
As I began taking my new medications, I mourned the end of our breastfeeding relationship. When I returned home, giving her a bottle of formula burned a hole in my very being. I still ache over it.
My inability to provide for my daughter when I should be able to is what I hate about breastfeeding. This seemingly natural act that every woman is supposed to be able to perform was no longer an option for me. I felt like a failure, that I let down my daughter, my husband and myself.
Now here I am, with a 3-month-old who, so far has been fed exclusively breast milk. Unlike my situation with my first daughter, I’m fully employed now. Juggling nursing and pumping with hitting deadlines and conducting interviews is tough.
Along with all of the aforementioned issues, I’ve been hit with mastitis (inflammation of the breast) a handful of times, including six days after giving birth. It’s my body’s way of saying, “Hey. Slow down. Relax. Breathe.”
And that’s a good reminder for me, as a working mom of two beautiful, energetic and hilarious girls, to slow down, relax and breathe.
Laundry won’t do itself, but it will get done. Boxed macaroni and cheese with thawed peas for dinner still provides four solid food groups.
Snuggling and reading books is far more enriching than digging into local message boards. I can sleep when I’m dead.
And breastfeeding is great for as long as it will work for both baby and me.
In our society, there is so much pressure to breastfeed. We’re told “breast is best” and providing anything less is a disservice to your child, regardless of how much of a Wonder Woman you are in every other aspect of motherhood.
While I am definitely an advocate for breastfeeding, I think it’s important to remember that it doesn’t define moms as good or bad.
Some moms don’t produce. Some moms find breastfeeding weird. Some moms breastfeed until their kids are in kindergarten. And somewhere, out there, is that model mom who has zero troubles with breastfeeding. And all of those moms are OK.
