I do this to myself every time. Every time. I torture myself. Of course, each and every time I have a new plan of action and I swear that I will not torture myself. Yet here I am, once again, engorged, weepy and miserable. I convince myself that I will breastfeed this baby, I have to. I have a plan and swear that I will not allow myself to give in to the anguish and self doubt, and let’s not forget extreme physical pain; apparently I am easily duped.
With First Son it was the worst. Well, he was my first and so I was quite the idealist. I had done all of my reading, of course. I knew that breast milk was the best choice for him, and since I was going to be the Best Mom, it really was never a question. I went to the seminars, I bought the La Leche League book, even a few nursing bras and tops, I was all set. Just like the book advised, I told the nurses and doctors in the hospital that he was NOT to be given a bottle or a pacifier, lest we have the dear boy come down with a bad case of nipple confusion. Then, the darndest thing happened. I had an emergency c-section, and felt like I was hit by a train. I was majorly doped up. First son was a big baby, and extremely active at birth. The nurses asked me if they could give him a bottle, and I of course said NO! Then, a few hours later they came to tell me that he was going to be in the “Special Care Nursery” because they were starting an IV, he had low blood sugar. Enter GUILT, cue TEARS. (his low blood sugar issue had nothing to do with my nursing decision, but as I said, I was doped up and slightly hormonal having just given birth) It was over 24 hours before I had First Son back in my arms, in my room, where I could even try to breastfeed him. I tried. I tried for days. My recovery from surgery was rough. Hard. I was in pain from the surgery, and then my milk came in. In addition to feeling like my stomach had been ripped open from inside by aliens, I now had these two rock hard, extremely sore, leaky extremities hanging from my chest. Add to that the fact that I was supposed to have the baby set his Vulcan death grip lips around them and suck? Can you say ow? I did. I said it and I cried it and I probably even shouted it once or twice. Why didn’t any of the books show the real picture? The mom sitting with the cute little baby attached to her breast, tears running down her sleep deprived face as she stares longingly at a bottle of whiskey? Within a few days both First Son and I developed a thrush infection because of an antibiotic I had been on before I delivered and that put an end to my breast feeding fantasies with First Son. I was sad, I felt guilty, I did not give up easily. Finally my wise OB advised me to stop torturing myself. She asked if I had been breastfed as a child, I replied that I didn’t think so. She went on to say that she hadn’t either, and yet miraculously she had grown up to become a doctor! She was fine and well, so was I, chances were good that my baby would be as well. So, out came the baby formula and bottles, and I started formulating a plan for my second child right then and there. I was certain that I would be given another chance at this breastfeeding thing, and I would prove myself to be a good Mom yet!
Just shy of two years later Curly Girl arrived, again by c-section, (though without the trauma of the first, as she was scheduled) and out came the boob. Still, I was in pain from the surgery, my breasts had swollen to two times their normal size, which was at least twice the size of her head, and I was not having an easy time. I couldn’t fathom that every time my sweet baby girl would latch on I would see stars, and seep tears. I called a lactation consultant and paid almost $200 that we really couldn't afford, for some “advice” and a private lesson. A day later I gave up. I pulled a muscle in my abdomen trying to get out of bed, and for the next week, in between myriad doctor appointments to try and figure out what the heck was wrong with me, I could barely get myself up out of bed to give her a bottle, much less hold her to my sore breasts for 20 minutes. I summoned all of my courage and told the lactation consultant through tears that I just couldn’t do it, and that I didn’t have to. I am sure I was trying to convince myself more than anyone else, because she didn’t put any pressure on me, but told me to call anytime. I then had to have someone drive me to the baby mega store to buy some bottles, as part of my “plan” had been to not even keep any in the house, because to do so would be sabotaging myself. I got over it a little bit quicker this time, though I was still sad and weepy.
When Paddy boy arrived I had a plan that I was going to nurse him for night feedings only. The rest of the time he would have formula. I decided that this was a good plan, because it would leave me free during the day to tend to my other children and a hectic schedule, yet give me and my baby some special bonding time at night. I didn’t even consider the fact that I would require some sleep during this time. Nursing takes double the time that a bottle feeding takes. I knew I had to call it quits when I became afraid that I would drop him in the middle of the night when I fell asleep holding him. Now, because I had witnessed first hand through First Son and Curly Girl that my original OB was indeed correct, my formula fed babies would be just fine, I made peace with my decision to stop the boob and move on to the bottle.
I think that part of the reason I was able to make peace with my decision not to nurse was because I knew I would have another chance. Each time I was coping with the hope of a “do-over”. That is what is so different this time. I am not as convinced that I will get another chance. I have four children! Four small children! I am stretched. We are stretched. Our home is stretched, our wallet is stretched, our cesspool is certainly stretched! I am not convinced that I am finished having children, I concede that there may be one more in there, but, for the first time, I am not convinced that there is definitely another one to come. The best I can say is maybe and mean it. So what that translates to is that this may very well be my last chance to get this whole breastfeeding thing right.
I have been crying about it all night. I am searching my soul to find out what exactly it is I really want. My plan this time around has been to pump for the first month and give my body a chance to recover from major surgery, before I even begin to torture myself with the baby and his Vulcan death grip lips (apparently they all have them). The problem is that I am in such a rush to get myself and my body back in form. This pregnancy was really tough for me, emotionally and physically. It is hard to have two babies, because let’s face it, at just 17 months that is what Paddy boy is, a baby. I want desperately to feel good again, to be able to pick my big baby up from his crib, and chase him off of the stairs, and give him a bath. I want to be able to be his Mommy again, instead of the lady who spends all day sitting on the couch or on her bed holding the “new baby”. Paddy boy is my baby too and it is killing me that I am not much more than a casual observer these days. Add to that the extreme fullness and soreness of my breasts, the fact that they are what is preventing me from being able to get up from bed at night to comfort Paddy Boy and his night terrors (they just hurt so much!), and the idea that I will be solely responsible for the health and nutrition of Baby Boy while others are able to help out with the rest of the cherubs and I am a bubbling, babbling mess of tears.
I am way too smart to think that the measure of a good Mom is the form of nutrition she offers her infant. On an intellectual level I can argue this point for hours. Still, there is a part of me that wants so much to be one of those Moms who can casually lift their shirt and let their babies latch on, all the while continuing their conversations and sipping their cups of chamomile. I don’t know why, even after 3 kids, 3 failed attempts, I can’t seem to let go of this ideal. Why do I do this to myself? I feel so selfish if I decide to abandon the nursing "project". I guess in truth though, either decision is a selfish one. The truth is that even my desire to keep nursing is driven not so much by my feeling that it is the best choice for Baby Boy, but that it will make me feel like a good Mom. How selfish is that?
I guess I need to face my reality. I am a good Mom. A really good Mom and I know it. I just have to accept it. I can take some pride in the fact that every one of my kids was nursed for the first few days of life, receiving what is known as "liquid gold", or colostrum, the rich substance that comes before the actual milk. It is full of antibodies, and wonderful, healthy goodness. At least they got that from me. Also, when I stopped nursing, I started to become myself again, a happy well adjusted Mom, who feels happy every time my baby cries from his bassinet in the middle of the night, because I anticipate the holding, snuggling, bonding act to come while I hold his bottle and stare into his eyes, rather than dreading the minutes that go by before he cries out again and I have to wince in pain as I do the "right" thing and offer my breast to the little alien.
And so, my decision is made. I am putting the boob away, again. Maybe for always, but definitely for good.
