Breastfeeding from the Trenches

WARNING: The following blog entry contains the word "breast" in every other sentence. If that makes you uncomfortable, cease reading.

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My goal was to breastfeed for six months and I made it! (And then some.) Right after Oliver was born, though, I wasn't sure if I'd make it even six days. Six weeks felt like an eternity. Six months suddenly seemed impossible. Before Oliver was born, I had decided on six months, because I'd heard it was a recommendation by some well-respected organization whose name I can't remember. In those first two or three weeks, all I could think was, "This sucks," and about how sad I was that I wanted to give up on something I was so confident beforehand that I could do.

Breastfeeding, in theory, is not difficult - no bottles, no mixing and warming formula, it's readily available and ready to go. It's the details, the ones that are glossed over or not talked about unless you hang out with a breastfeeding woman and hear about what the commitment really entails. Although there's a lot of education among my generation to promote breastfeeding, and doctors, hospitals and workplaces are lining up in support, much of the details about breastfeeding remain a mystery to those, like me, who just didn't have a lot of exposure to the practice until I was doing it myself. You rarely see women breastfeeding in public, and unless you're close friends with someone breastfeeding, you're not going to be privy to the ups and downs. Thus, I was surprised by how lonely, overwhelming, frustrating and boring the experience initially was.

I was lucky in that I didn't have any "mechanical" challenges to overcome - Oliver figured out how to latch quickly, I never experienced painful clogged ducts or mastitis, and my milk supply, while a little late to come in, was always adequate. Other than some clumsiness as I figured out how best to position Oliver and encourage a good latch and a lot of really uncomfortable engorgement - all really unavoidable when you're a newbie - my foray into breastfeeding was "by the book." Yet, why was it still rough going?

I recently listened to a podcast about breastfeeding and the guest on the show, a nurse and lactation consultant, was the most straight-forward of any breast-feeding proponent I'd encountered about the reality of breastfeeding. Most focus only on the benefits of breastfeeding and why you should do it. Sure, this woman did that, but not while also gushing about what an "intimate experience" it is, or how it's a "selfless act" or how it's the ultimate form of "bonding." Please. If I hear any more of these descriptions, I'm going to gag, because I find these cliches about what the experience is supposed to be like and the phrases hardly described my own.

The lactation consultant's job was to promote breastfeeding and help women correct challenges, but I also appreciated how forthright she was. It's monotonous, she said. You're going to feel like you're never going to do anything else but feed your baby and that you're never going to move from your position on the couch. Oh, and it's boring and lonely, she continued. Back in the day, child-rearing was more a collective effort and you most likely had a mom, cousin, sister around - someone, thus, to talk to to pass the time away. You weren't sequestered in your office or a lactation room pumping or alone at home all day. I listened to that podcast 10 months too late.

I feel so naive now, but that podcaster wasn't kidding about breastfeeding being time-consuming. I'd never done the math. Well, first of all, I never even thought about how long it could take a baby to eat, not that I could have planned for that since you just can't know ahead of time what kind of eater you'll have. Multiply that by 8-10 times in a 24-hour period. And when some book I read during pregnancy said that most newborns need to eat every one to two hours, it didn't mention that that's every two hours from the last time he started eating. So if he ate at 9:00 a.m., and it took him 45 minutes to eat, it's already 9:45 a.m. and he's going to want to eat again in another hour and 15 minutes, not at 11:45 a.m. So I was unprepared for how long I'd be stuck in one position with a baby literally attached to me. Hours a day.

I'd had this image in my head of the happy, adoring mom nestled in her glider in the softly lit nursery as her baby quietly suckled. Forget that it could be the wee hours of the morning. Forget that those feedings could last 45 minutes and you could be bored out of your mind staring at the wall. Forget that you can't be doing anything else at that moment. Suddenly I wanted to be doing dishes, the laundry or mopping the floors. Menial housework would have felt liberating. So the reality was me sitting cross-legged on the couch, for sometimes hours at a time (it took Oliver so long to eat that by the time he was finished, he was hungry again) and often crying because "HOW COULD THE BABY STILL BE HUNGRY!" and all I wanted was the freedom to go do something else, anything else at that very moment, because it was 6:00 p.m. in the evening and I was ready to call it a day. I'd probably already had a baby latched onto my breast for eight hours that day. Staring adoringly at my baby boy, as awe-inspiring as he was, was not enough entertainment for me, so either the TV or computer was on, because this is how I kept myself from falling asleep with my baby in my arms in the middle of the night, or to keep me from dying of boredom. That was the reality of what our nursing sessions looked like.

I so desperately needed a break, but breastfeeding isn't a commitment you can back out on whenever you don't feel like it. To keep your milk supply up, you ideally should be either feeding the baby every time he or she needs to eat, or at least pumping. Uncomfortable engorgement is probably nature's not-so-gentle reminder to feed, or else. So even getting away for a few hours entailed either being back for a feeding, or finding somewhere to pump, as well as a way to store the milk and transport it home, unless you just dumped it.

It was this realization that I couldn't take a break or that I couldn't roll over in the middle of the night when awoken by the baby's cries and tell my husband, "It's your turn to feed the baby," that left me really overwhelmed much of the first few week by this responsibility as my baby's soul source of nourishment. I had felt proud, for instance, when the visiting nurse weighed Oliver in our kitchen after his first week of life and announced he'd gained a pound and was healthy, (sustaining another human being with my own body was awe-inspiring) but still overwhelmed. I had carried the baby, I had given birth to the baby, I was physically recovering from the birth (after a long labor followed by an unplanned c-section) and now I was the only one who could feed the baby when all I wanted was a goddamn nap? I was frankly resentful of my husband, resentful of all the pro-breastfeeding sources that had convinced me the only responsible, healthy way to feed my baby was by breast and resentful of even my own stubborness to not give up because I would have had to admitted to everyone that I had failed.

Breastfeeding was also often very lonely at the beginning. I've never been a night owl and despite having gone to college, never pulled an all-nighter. But once Oliver arrived, I was up multiple times each night, sometimes for hours at a time. Those nights were so lonely and unpredictable, (how many times would I be awakened, how many minutes, or even hours, would I be up at a time?) I started to dread nightfall.

So those nights were lonely - and cold. How did I miss the part about night sweats? I took a class on breastfeeding, I read books, I listened to podcasts. In all of this, how could night sweats never have been mentioned? The first time I woke up soaked through all my clothes with slightly damp sheets underneath my once soundly-sleeping body, I was convinced we had the thermostat set too high. Not only was I sleep-deprived and alone to take care of a screaming and hungry baby, I was also wet and cold. When I dragged myself out of bed, I had to wrap myself in one of Chris's ridiculously large hooded snowboarder sweatshirts that came down to my knees to keep from shivering uncontrollably. I eventually laid down a towel on my side of the bed to keep from soaking through a fresh set of sheets every night and kept a spare pair of pajamas nearby to change into before going to feed Oliver.

Those were the emotionally-laden, steep-learning curve first months. But as the woman who ran my parent support group at the hospital said, bottle feeding is easier in the beginning and breastfeeding is more difficult, but breastfeeding eventually becomes easy and bottle feeding becomes difficult. She told our group this weeks after Oliver was born and just when breastfeeding was starting to feel like second nature for me. I was happy I'd stuck with it. The night sweats stopped, Oliver's night-time feedings started to drop, he slowly became a more proficient eater and the out-of-control engorgement and springing a leak (literally) without warning ceased seemingly overnight. Oliver and I had found our nursing groove and when his six-month birthday arrived, I saw no reason anymore to stop. Those first few weeks with the steep learning curve suddenly seemed like a distant memory and breastfeeding felt like something I was comfortable with and like I always knew how to do.

The logistics of it all never ceased though. Even as the number of times a day he nursed dropped, I still planned my day around when he needed to eat and I had to consider where I'd be when this time rolled around. Would there be a quiet and comfortable place to sit and nurse? After a few months, he was too easily distracted if I was even talking to someone else, and as he grew, I literally needed space around me. Nursing in a plane seat, at a popular storytime where crowds packed into the small bookstore, or even in a chair with arms that came too high, was impossible. I was limited in what I could wear based on how easily I could breastfeed in it. Dresses, form-fitting anything, button-down shirts were all out. The only bras I could wear were unsupportive nursing bras that left me feeling frumpy in anything I wore. The warmer weather did make breastfeeding easier when away from home - suddenly feeding on a park bench was an option - but not when dressed in a sports bra and sweating profusely during a muggy Minnesota summer day.

As much of a positive experience breastfeeding turned out to be for me, I'm honest with people that Oliver was never exclusively breastfed, and that was by choice. When it was first recommended while still in the hospital that we supplement with formula because Oliver was supposedly jaundiced and my milk hadn't yet come in, I was upset, even though I eventually relented. Knowing what I know now, maybe I wouldn't have supplemented with formula, but knowing what I knew then, I made the best decision I could have. Although I felt a lot of pressure at the time, I had to make a choice and move on and formula supplementation is what we did.

Formula quickly went from something that wasn't even an option to a welcomed supplement. Chris often gave Oliver a bottle in the evening in the early weeks to give me a break and I truly believe that daily respite kept me from losing my mind. I also refused to be a slave to a pump, (an option I could forgo as a stay-at-home mom) so formula allowed me extended or overnight breaks. When away from home, I pumped for comfort, not to save up for future feedings, and then relied on patience and persistence to bring my supply back up when I was back to exclusive nursing. Because of Chris's work and school schedule, I was responsible for Oliver, the house, and of course myself (hey, I've got to eat and shower sometime) for extended time periods, and pumping required time I didn't have. Even if I knew I was going out for awhile, I literally didn't have time in the days leading up to my few hours of freedom to stockpile bottles of breastmilk. I did pump some in the first three or four months, but then decided that for the limited times Oliver was away from me, he'd get formula. And that I wouldn't feel guilty about it.

I travel in a very breastfeeding supportive circle, which is awesome, but I have friends who brag about how little formula or no formula their babies have had, and I refuse to let breastfeeding be an all or nothing deal. I gave what I could physically, mentally and logistically and consider what I accomplished a success. I just hope other women feel comfortable continuing with breastfeeding even if they have to, or choose to, supplement with formula. Sure, "breast is best," but formula isn't considered poison in my book.

When Oliver turned one, I had reached my revised goal of breastfeeding until age one, which is the recommendation by the American Academy of Pediatrics, which supports "exclusive breastfeeding for approximately the first six months and support for breastfeeding for the first year and beyond as long as mutually desired by mother and child." Earlier in Oliver's life I didn't know if I'd be sad when I would eventually decide to wean him, but his lessening dependence on breast milk ultimately made my decision to wean at a year less guilt-ridden. It was amazing to notice that even in just the last month of his first year of life, nursing him took two or three minutes and sometimes he'd literally take a few sips and be done. I had begun transitioning him to cow's milk at eleven months, so by the time his first birthday rolled around, I was only nursing him in the morning. One morning a week after his birthday, he threw a fit when I tried putting him to the breast. I'd been holding onto one nursing session a day just to keep my milk supply there in case I regreted my decision to wean. But when he "announced" he was finished, the mix of emotions I thought would be there weren't. We're both ready for the next stages in our lives and it'll be then, that despite frustrations and challenges, what I'll remember above all about my breastfeeding experience is the sight of my once small cuddly baby who had nursed to sleep in my arms drunk on mommy's milk.