My Feeding Story
We are smack dab in the middle of the crazy holiday season. Those kids are going to get nuts, and we're going to be thrown into social situations that are once-a-year gatherings where "well-meaning" people get to give you their opinions and judge you just a teeny-tiny bit. Let's be proactive instead of reactive, okay? Let's vanquish the idea that certain ways of parenting are better than others together. There are a lot of mommy wars raging out there and that's no good for any of us. Parenting is hard enough - we're sleep, thought and memory deprived and throwing some guilt and shame in there makes for a pretty lousy life.
All of the judging seems to start immediately so I want to give all you parents out there the freedom to feed your child the way you need and want to do. Breast feed, bottle feed, formula feed - do whatever makes you happy. Life doesn't have to be so challenging. Save up all your effort for much harder actions in life, like not cursing at your child when he reaches the independence and sass phase at age three. And four. And five. (Could someone tell me it gets better. Thanks.)
My pregnancy was pretty uneventful - if you don't count in the heinous morning sickness and unending cycle of butt cysts. I worked that subway and got myself some prime seating, I remember getting a few bagels for free because I was eating for two and I definitely remember some rash, maniacal hormones being unleashed on the public and people not batting any eyes. God bless them. Hug a New Yorker today.
When I gave birth to Ollie and shrieked at the doctor and roomful of nurses with celebratory, upraised fists that I had just birthed out a child, I thought that was the highest I could go. Ollie scored a perfect 9 and was laid on my chest, my husband looked at me in amazement and I was wheeled into our room. When Ollie came back, he looked like the same alien that they had given me from my womb, so evidently nobody had swapped out our angel for a different model. We had it all going for us.
Then the nurse came in to get us breastfeeding. My confidence tanked like a lead balloon. I honestly didn't expect it to be so difficult. First off, those ladies don't take no for an answer. I was a sitting duck. No sooner had she introduced herself than I was stretched out, chest naked and my son attached and drinking from my body like a Mary Mother of God painting. The only evidence I had that she even touched my breast was the vague feeling of molestation and confusion. She then told me to do it. Have you ever been asked to repeat an action and you just couldn't? She asked me to manipulate my nipple so that the entire areola went into his mouth. Um, have you seen this areola, lady? It's about the size of a hubcap, and with his mouth the size of a baby strawberry just coming off the vine, that was not going to happen. I'd seen enough at this point to know how body parts could change sizes when necessary, but this didn't make sense. Was I supposed to fold my boob up like a pizza? Maybe like a phone cord? A Chinese fan? She then successfully attached him again and told me to practice. I asked if she lived in the hospital and for her cell number.
We tried - man, how we tried. Throughout our hospital stay, we worked at it. I cried, Ollie cried and they fed him formula to keep him from completely throwing himself up against the window of the postpartum ward. I swear Ollie would look from Doug and I to the nurse as if he was using ESP to tell her that there was no possible way he was coming home with us. When the time came to say goodbye, we were so scared to head home. He and I both knew that despite my best efforts, he was sure to come back malnourished.
That first two weeks was the worst two weeks of my life. For many reasons, of course - and you can find them here, but the beginning of my breastfeeding journey was the farthest from smooth. I called my sister and my mom, I talked with all the breastfeeding experts to whom I had access and I was an internet junkie. I diagnosed his nursing style and he was all of them at once. I looked into tongue thrust but couldn't stomach the idea of snipping something in his mouth. Ollie grew and gained, but I had no idea how. Every two hours our nursing nightmare would begin and would last about 45 minutes with my nipple blasting hot sticky cereal milk all over his face, his back arching, me contorting my body and feeling like I was either suffocating him with my giant teat or gagging him with leakage I couldn't control. It was hell. We sat down, we laid down, we stood up, we walked around, we Ergo'd...and we were exhausted.
Finally, I had had enough. I decided to pump. The first time felt amazing. My milk filled that four-ounce bottle and I swirled it around in awe, holding it up to the light, gazing at the rivulets like the legs of an expensive fine wine. But my inner guilt made me feel like a worthless and failing mother and I practically threw the bottle at poor Doug so he could feed him. Luckily, Doug worked from home and was able to spend the time we needed feeding Ollie, so I could pump without Ollie hungry-raging at me. Hungraging.
We threw around the idea of formula. My older sister had went immediately to formula for her cherub and it was going fantastically. She and Kenzie went out to get her nails done the week after she was born! I knew that formula was JUST AS HEALTHY as breast milk, but it was more expensive than making the food myself. It wasn't just the expense, however, that made me want to stick with breast milk - it was that I wanted to nurse. I wanted to prove to myself that I could sustain my son's life with my body. (Pride is tricky, sweethearts.) But something had to give.
We got our chance to test out formula when my pilonidal cyst reared his ugly head. (Lucky!) Ollie was three weeks old and my parents were in town. While Mom and Doug stayed home with Little, Dad and I took a cab to the urgent care to get the bastard lanced. Because I would have iodine-laced gauze, Ollie wouldn't be able to eat any of my breast milk. We cracked open the newborn formula sent home with us from the hospital, but Ollie turned up his nose at it so quickly, you would've thought we'd asked him to eat his own poop. We bought a different type of formula, but he gagged at that as well.
At this point, we kind of ran out of options and decided to take another swing at nursing. I switched to non-iodine gauze for my crack and, with my heart in my throat, tried again. The results were nearly the same and Ollie was less than impressed. For the next feeding we tried the formula again. He refused it so I gave him the boob option. He took it and, after just a couple feedings, we were made in the frigging shade. He was eating! I'm pretty sure we hoodwinked the sucker.
I'm not saying it was all roses and lollipops after that, but it sure was easier. Doug didn't have to get up with him several times a night because I could just walk in there and feed him. When Ollie was sick or tired or hurting or pissed, I could calm him quickly by stuffing my nip in his mouth. We could grab me a snack, get outside and be gone for hours without having to grab equipment or a freezer pack for bottles. And I got to spend the time I needed to bond with Oliver. I felt fulfilled, Ollie felt satisfied and our budget stayed put.
We ended up nursing for 13 months. At six months we started solid foods but he drank as much as ever. After a year, Ollie started only wanting breast milk in the morning and before he went to bed. A month later, he didn't need the morning feeding and a week after that, he turned his head away when I offered him his usual nighttime boob snack.
And that was it; we were done. I was a little sad, but mostly relieved as eff. My word, breastfeeding was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but I am so proud that my family stuck with it.
So that's my story. Life was easier with breastfeeding, once we got the hang of it, definitely. But if I had to choose again, I don't know that I would have fought off the idea of formula so quickly. Formula offers such incredible ease of life just the same as breastfeeding, but without the sore nipples, crazy let-down, terror of not making enough milk and having to deal with morons who can't handle seeing a boob in public.
So this holiday season, choose, darlings. Choose for yourself. Don't trust anyone who pushes their opinion on you or gives you a hard time for making the decisions that are right for you, your baby and your family. Wipe out the guilt. You've got this, lovies, and you're perfect for it.
Check out the Honest feeding resources for more information. They take a best-for-baby approach (JUST LIKE YOU DO!) and have developed a variety of solutions for both both breast and formula feeding. And their sunscreen is dynamite, too.
All of the judging seems to start immediately so I want to give all you parents out there the freedom to feed your child the way you need and want to do. Breast feed, bottle feed, formula feed - do whatever makes you happy. Life doesn't have to be so challenging. Save up all your effort for much harder actions in life, like not cursing at your child when he reaches the independence and sass phase at age three. And four. And five. (Could someone tell me it gets better. Thanks.)
My pregnancy was pretty uneventful - if you don't count in the heinous morning sickness and unending cycle of butt cysts. I worked that subway and got myself some prime seating, I remember getting a few bagels for free because I was eating for two and I definitely remember some rash, maniacal hormones being unleashed on the public and people not batting any eyes. God bless them. Hug a New Yorker today.
When I gave birth to Ollie and shrieked at the doctor and roomful of nurses with celebratory, upraised fists that I had just birthed out a child, I thought that was the highest I could go. Ollie scored a perfect 9 and was laid on my chest, my husband looked at me in amazement and I was wheeled into our room. When Ollie came back, he looked like the same alien that they had given me from my womb, so evidently nobody had swapped out our angel for a different model. We had it all going for us.
Then the nurse came in to get us breastfeeding. My confidence tanked like a lead balloon. I honestly didn't expect it to be so difficult. First off, those ladies don't take no for an answer. I was a sitting duck. No sooner had she introduced herself than I was stretched out, chest naked and my son attached and drinking from my body like a Mary Mother of God painting. The only evidence I had that she even touched my breast was the vague feeling of molestation and confusion. She then told me to do it. Have you ever been asked to repeat an action and you just couldn't? She asked me to manipulate my nipple so that the entire areola went into his mouth. Um, have you seen this areola, lady? It's about the size of a hubcap, and with his mouth the size of a baby strawberry just coming off the vine, that was not going to happen. I'd seen enough at this point to know how body parts could change sizes when necessary, but this didn't make sense. Was I supposed to fold my boob up like a pizza? Maybe like a phone cord? A Chinese fan? She then successfully attached him again and told me to practice. I asked if she lived in the hospital and for her cell number.
We tried - man, how we tried. Throughout our hospital stay, we worked at it. I cried, Ollie cried and they fed him formula to keep him from completely throwing himself up against the window of the postpartum ward. I swear Ollie would look from Doug and I to the nurse as if he was using ESP to tell her that there was no possible way he was coming home with us. When the time came to say goodbye, we were so scared to head home. He and I both knew that despite my best efforts, he was sure to come back malnourished.
That first two weeks was the worst two weeks of my life. For many reasons, of course - and you can find them here, but the beginning of my breastfeeding journey was the farthest from smooth. I called my sister and my mom, I talked with all the breastfeeding experts to whom I had access and I was an internet junkie. I diagnosed his nursing style and he was all of them at once. I looked into tongue thrust but couldn't stomach the idea of snipping something in his mouth. Ollie grew and gained, but I had no idea how. Every two hours our nursing nightmare would begin and would last about 45 minutes with my nipple blasting hot sticky cereal milk all over his face, his back arching, me contorting my body and feeling like I was either suffocating him with my giant teat or gagging him with leakage I couldn't control. It was hell. We sat down, we laid down, we stood up, we walked around, we Ergo'd...and we were exhausted.
We kept this up for about a week, until it started to drain on all of us. Days went better with Ollie eating from a bottle, but I was miserable. Each time Ollie would be hungry, Doug would warm up some milk and I would go into the other room to pump. I felt like a cow being milked, I was sure I was hearing subliminal messages from the machine and I missed the cuddling time I got with my little. I was also seriously envious of Doug and couldn't increase my back-up supply past a few pouches - enough for the next feeding. Doug and I discussed options because this didn't seem to be a long-term plan.
We threw around the idea of formula. My older sister had went immediately to formula for her cherub and it was going fantastically. She and Kenzie went out to get her nails done the week after she was born! I knew that formula was JUST AS HEALTHY as breast milk, but it was more expensive than making the food myself. It wasn't just the expense, however, that made me want to stick with breast milk - it was that I wanted to nurse. I wanted to prove to myself that I could sustain my son's life with my body. (Pride is tricky, sweethearts.) But something had to give.
We got our chance to test out formula when my pilonidal cyst reared his ugly head. (Lucky!) Ollie was three weeks old and my parents were in town. While Mom and Doug stayed home with Little, Dad and I took a cab to the urgent care to get the bastard lanced. Because I would have iodine-laced gauze, Ollie wouldn't be able to eat any of my breast milk. We cracked open the newborn formula sent home with us from the hospital, but Ollie turned up his nose at it so quickly, you would've thought we'd asked him to eat his own poop. We bought a different type of formula, but he gagged at that as well.
At this point, we kind of ran out of options and decided to take another swing at nursing. I switched to non-iodine gauze for my crack and, with my heart in my throat, tried again. The results were nearly the same and Ollie was less than impressed. For the next feeding we tried the formula again. He refused it so I gave him the boob option. He took it and, after just a couple feedings, we were made in the frigging shade. He was eating! I'm pretty sure we hoodwinked the sucker.
I'm not saying it was all roses and lollipops after that, but it sure was easier. Doug didn't have to get up with him several times a night because I could just walk in there and feed him. When Ollie was sick or tired or hurting or pissed, I could calm him quickly by stuffing my nip in his mouth. We could grab me a snack, get outside and be gone for hours without having to grab equipment or a freezer pack for bottles. And I got to spend the time I needed to bond with Oliver. I felt fulfilled, Ollie felt satisfied and our budget stayed put.
When I had to go back to work, I pumped at work and nursed at home. Ollie was a growing boy and hungry as a wolf, so I ended up pumping six times a day for his four meals at daycare. It definitely sucked (GET IT??), but we made it through.
We ended up nursing for 13 months. At six months we started solid foods but he drank as much as ever. After a year, Ollie started only wanting breast milk in the morning and before he went to bed. A month later, he didn't need the morning feeding and a week after that, he turned his head away when I offered him his usual nighttime boob snack.
And that was it; we were done. I was a little sad, but mostly relieved as eff. My word, breastfeeding was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but I am so proud that my family stuck with it.
So that's my story. Life was easier with breastfeeding, once we got the hang of it, definitely. But if I had to choose again, I don't know that I would have fought off the idea of formula so quickly. Formula offers such incredible ease of life just the same as breastfeeding, but without the sore nipples, crazy let-down, terror of not making enough milk and having to deal with morons who can't handle seeing a boob in public.
So this holiday season, choose, darlings. Choose for yourself. Don't trust anyone who pushes their opinion on you or gives you a hard time for making the decisions that are right for you, your baby and your family. Wipe out the guilt. You've got this, lovies, and you're perfect for it.
Check out the Honest feeding resources for more information. They take a best-for-baby approach (JUST LIKE YOU DO!) and have developed a variety of solutions for both both breast and formula feeding. And their sunscreen is dynamite, too.
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