So, as it turns
out, breastfeeding is really hard. *lightbulb goes on*
Also, the
tyranny of breastfeeding! The sanctimony! The guilt! The UNRELENTING PRESSURE.
For the
uninitiated – a group of which I was very much a member until very recently –
you don’t actually appear, minutes post partum, full of breast milk and ready
to feed. In fact, it can take up to about five days for your milk to “come in.”
In the meantime, you’re blessed with thick, yellowing colostrum. It’s like baby
gold. Full of antibodies and all the good stuff. But for babies, getting it out
of your no-longer-your-own boobs, is
like sucking jello through a straw.
The first day, I
barely tried to feed at all. I felt like I was outside of my body looking in, Whose baby is this? Where did this stranger
come from? What am I supposed to do with him? Oh, right, FEED HIM. KEEP HIM
ALIVE. *Palm to forehead* (closely followed by OWW, STITCHES).
Thankfully,
while I bumbled around for a few hours in my drive to win mother of the year
award, Ezra was pretty chill – you know, trauma of coming through the birth
canal, lungs plugged with mucus, and so forth. In fact, newborns are so pumped
up with extra fluid that they could – but please, don’t try this at home –
survive for 2-3 days with literally no other nutrition. Or so the kindly,
avuncular pediatrician tells me.
By Tuesday
morning (Monday middle of the night? Time is no longer something that concerns
me, it just, well, passes), I started
to try[1]
to breastfeed. And it hurt. And I felt defeated. And he cried. And I cried. And
he rooted around and around and around – all gums and smacking lips and nudging
his head toward my boob and grabbing at my chest with his pointy little dagger
nails. It was all very animalistic. I got a good latch on one side only to experience
toe curling pain as he adjusted or as I accidentally touched the back of his
head, sending a signal to pull back! pull
back! And leaving him gumming every so tight and pinchy like around my
nipple. And quickly, what seemed like the inevitable occurred – the beginning
of the downward spiral. He latches, I cringe in pain, I detach him, I feel
ENORMOUS GUILT HEAVIER THAN THE WEIGHT OF THE WORLD, I try to reattach him, but
sore nipples beget sore nipples and fussy babies make for bad latchers.
And so we went.
And just when I felt we had achieved one much sought after positive feed, we
were hit with the news that his billirubin was high, and jaundice, the bane of
pale white babies born in winter the world over, had hit. The only cure?
More cowbell! Baby blue light phototherapy. You know, baby’s first day at
the spa. C even downloaded a rainforest sounds app to get him in the mood.
It was all very
entertaining – except for the part where I began weeping uncontrollably because
MAH BAY-BAY! and then the other part
where, you know, we had to watch him cry and squirm and scream, naked under
blue light for 24 hours. Feedings were regulated, structured and competed in
importance with the blue light. ALWAYS MORE BLUE LIGHT.
 |
| Baby's first day at the spa. |
Meanwhile, I
attended a hospital sponsored breast feeding support group, begged the
lactation consultant to basically move into our hospital room/adopt me – she
politely declined – and experienced only mildly successful feeds interspersed
with SO MANY TEARS (his and mine).
The first week
is a race against the clock – a race to prevent him from falling more than 10%
below his birth weight. Born at a whopping 7 lbs, 14 oz, we were hoping to keep
him from sliding past 7 lbs, 1 oz. But my boobs could barely keep up and when a
nurse suggested supplementing with formula, I nearly lost it/declared myself
unfit to be a parent[2]
Finally, we came
home. No more blue light, feedings on his schedule, in a comfortable chair, in
a place where I didn’t have to wear shower shoes in the bathroom. To try to
ease the transition, we had a post-partum doula come to the house and offer her
wisdom. It was easily the best spent four hours of my week – except, you know,
for like, giving birth. She helped us with breast feeding, she helped us with
bathing, she helped us with sleeping and soothing and various forms of baby
wearing. Mostly, she restored an ounce of confidence and helped us not just
muscle through this – although let’s be honest, WE ARE DOING OUR DAMNDEST TO
MUSCLE– but also to <novel thought> enjoy
this squirming bundle of lungs.
And through it
all, the feeding continues. But perhaps of equal importance, so do the
conversations – with other moms who had similar challenges that are never
discussed openly in public because, RED ALERT INADEQUATE MOTHER. The babies
that couldn’t latch, the supplementing with formula, the breasts that, due to
an earlier surgery, can’t produce enough milk. I have not met a single mom who
didn’t struggle to establish breastfeeding. And somehow, that is just a little
bit liberating.
SO. Onward we
go, armed with MyBrestFriend[3],
gobs of Lanolin cream, a naked baby and a Netflix subscription for prime
feeding distraction. On Friday – and, I should say, without any of the
aforementioned accoutrements – I achieved one of my lifelong goals when I <wait for it> breast fed while flat on
my back, enduring (the most painful of my life) pelvic exam and stitches “check
up.” I’m pretty sure I deserve some kind of ESTROGEN MEDAL OF FREEDOM AND
BADASS MOTHERHOOD™ for that little
number. No, seriously, I’ll wait at the podium.
[1] Try being the operative word here.
[2] Which, let’s be clear, is not actually
what I think. At all. But there’s this whole culture that feeds off maternal
inadequacy; this idea that there are ideal ways to do things and that anything
less is a reflection on one’s fitness to be a parent. That supplementing with
formula – or using only formula – means your child will be a maladjusted
delinquent hellcat, bent on world destruction and you, a parent in name only,
barely capable of raising a house plant. Well let’s just knock down that trope
right now, shall we? Pleaseandthankyou.
[3] I can barely type this name without
gagging. I registered for a boppy because the name so offended me. But it turns
out that for actually feeding – as opposed to for tummy time or other pursuits
of which I am only becoming aware – the BrestFriend is brest (sorry, couldn’t help myself).
