From Newborn to Infant, Everything I Love

infantlove

Another trimester has passed.  And as much as I loved the newborn period, I love this one too.  I know for many it can be very tough; but this transition, from 3 to 6 months, from newborn to infant, are some of the sweetest memories for me.

I love how much you’re learning.  You play with toys and books, and reach for your paci all on your own.  I love the way you grab your feet, and the way you always stick the same two fingers in your mouth. All of the milestones you reached, while they make me so proud, make me only more aware of how fast you’re growing.  You learned to roll, you learned to sit, you learned to plank.  You’re on the verge of crawling and I’m going to be on the verge of tears if you don’t slow down.

I love that you love being worn.  How you’ll look all around at what’s going on, taking it all in.  And when you’ve had enough, you’ll snuggle into my chest, and drift off to sleep in the middle of a party, or the middle of the ocean.  I love that when you’re fussy, being put in the carrier always works to calm you down.  Your head next to my heart, a perfect pair.

I love the sound of your voice. The newborn sounds have faded away, replaced by long conversations of babble, and the most joyous belly laughs.  I love the way you talk to yourself in the mirror, and giggle out loud when tickled.  Even when it’s 5 am, your intense desire to talk amuses me.  I wonder what wonderful things you will say when you learn the magic of words.

I love the way you love your sister.  She absolutely steals the show when she’s in the room; your eyes follow her everywhere. I watched you watch her the other night as she got up from the dinner table.  Your face was overcome with sadness when she disappeared from your sight, and the tears started rolling and didn’t stop until she came back.  When she cries, you cry.  When she’s near you, you reach out to touch her.  I can already see how much you look up to her, and I hope you have that look in your eyes for a lifetime.

I love nursing you.  Your entire face lights up when I walk into your school at lunchtime every day.  You jump excitedly in anticipation of the cuddles and warm milk.  I love the way you touch my face, memorizing it until the next time I see you.  I already see that nursing is changing; you’re more distracted, you move your arms and legs voraciously, you blow raspberries on me and giggle.  I’ll miss the quieter moments.  I love the way you sometimes drift off to sleep, barely holding on, but still moving your jaw every few seconds to make sure I’m still there.  I love the way your milky breath smells.  It smells of baby.

I love your wide gummy smile.  Seriously, the gummy smile is the best.  It’s what makes you still look like a little baby.  I’m in no hurry for that first tooth to pop.  Oh how it hurt when I realized you were ready for solid food last week.  That you were about to start needing me less.  That I would no longer be the sole source of your nourishment.  When I carry you on my hip, my arm numb from the weight, I remind myself I’ve grown you, all of you, all 19 pounds of you, for the past 16 months, from womb to world.  And it’s one of the proudest accomplishments of my lifetime.

I love comforting and snuggling you in the middle of the night.  You’ve never slept through, but the only thing I care about is making sure you know that I’m here for you, and teaching you that sleep is a safe, wonderful place.  Just this week, while daddy was away, I held you in one arm and your sister in the other.  Her long legs were draped over mine at first, but then she was horizontal, and then upside down, and was what felt like miles away.  The tears rolled down my face as I realized how quickly she had grown up, and I held on to you just a little bit tighter, hoping to freeze these snuggles in time.  Because I’ll blink, and you’ll be a little boy with wild hair and a fierce penchant for asking why.

I love being your mother.  I’ve only known you for six months, but it feels like you’ve always been here in our hearts.  You’ve completed our family in the most perfect way.  But that word complete is so final, and I’m realizing that all of your firsts… will be my lasts.  There’s this undercurrent, this dull ache I feel, intermingled in the messiest of ways with all of the joy.  It’s bittersweet for me, but forever my baby you’ll be.

 

 

 

 

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The end of maternity leave: The most important work

Endofleave

 

The bags are carefully packed and are waiting by the door.  The pump bag filled with bottles and pump parts and cleaning wipes and the hands-free bra, the bag with extra clothes with carefully ironed-on name labels, the bag with diapers and wipes and coconut oil, my backpack with my laptop and all of the hospital bills I still need to pay when I get a spare moment… and tomorrow I’ll fill a cooler bag with the bottles of breastmilk I have measured and re-measured a million times, unsure of how much to actually send.  Oh yea, and my diaper bag and purse.  Tomorrow I’ll be the bag lady.

Tomorrow I go back to my job outside the home – I won’t call it going back to work, because I’ve been doing work.  Important work.  The most important work in fact.  The work of giving birth.  The work of recovering.  The work of building bonds with my baby.  The work of establishing my milk supply.  The work of learning how to balance parenting two children.  The work of laundry. So. Much. Laundry.

I’ve done this before.  The night before going back to your other job can feel a lot like the first day of school after a long summer…  Who are these new people?  What are these new policies?  Will they recognize me?

That last one might sound silly… of course they’ll recognize me, on the surface.  But underneath, deep down, I’ve been transformed.  And each child transforms you differently.  With my daughter, I was utterly transformed by this feeling that I would go to the ends of the earth for this tiny human being.  Her birth changed me into someone who at all costs, believed in myself.  My breastfeeding journey with her showed me the deepest reserves of strength I never knew I had.  As someone who previously struggled with my own perception of my body, I now viewed it as this amazing temple that could perform the biggest of miracles.

My miscarriage transformed me.  I was no longer invincible, no longer innocent.  But I learned how to grieve, and how to heal.

With my son, I’ve been transformed again.  His birth showed me how to harness my power.  Breastfeeding him has taught me how to trust my instincts.  I hold my parenting convictions more deeply; I’m unapologetic about my bedsharing, and even more outspoken about how the postpartum period should be.  My heart has grown astoundingly bigger, for another tiny human who I love just as fiercely as the first.

So yes, I wonder if they’ll recognize me.  Motherhood has changed me.  They might notice that all of these big feelings, this other job of mothering, impact my work.  It means that I’m more efficient with my time.  It means that I can multi-task at a whole new level.  It means that I’m a more nurturing teacher.  It means that I’m less likely to second-guess my instincts.  It means that I’m more willing to be flexible when circumstances change.  What makes me a better mother also makes me a better employee.

Everyone has asked me if I’m ready.  I don’t know if you can ever be ready.  I’ve already cried 3 times in the past week, and I’m sure more tears will be shed in the morning.  But I remind myself that this is a choice I am making.  I am privileged that it even is a choice for me.  Despite how glorious the last 19 weeks have been, I have spent it feeling sad and angry for my friends who do not have the choices I do.  We live in a country that does not respect new motherhood as the most important work. 

For the mothers who only got 2 weeks off… I am sorry that you weren’t given a chance to recover from birth. I am sorry that you were not allowed to get off the hormonal roller coaster first.  I am sorry that you had to go back to work on a paltry amount of sleep while your baby still had their days and nights mixed up.  I am sorry that you likely had very little “choice” in how you fed your baby.

For the mothers who only got 6 weeks off… I am sorry that recovery from birth is apparently the only thing that matters, and that many of you still won’t be recovered by this point.  I am sorry that you had to leave just as you were getting to know your baby.  I am sorry that just as it was starting to get easier, it got harder.  I am sorry that if you had any breastfeeding issues, you may not have had enough time to resolve them.  I am sorry that you didn’t get the optimal chance to firmly establish your milk supply; I am sorry that you may have to wean earlier than you intended.

For the mothers who only got 12 weeks off… I am sorry that you’ve likely taken much of this time unpaid.  That despite your desire to spend more time with your baby, the threat of losing your job is forcing you to go back.  That even if you have the flexibility to take more time off, that the financial burden of doing so unpaid is too stressful.  I’m sorry that you may have had to put your baby in daycare during the height of cold and flu season.  That your first weeks back at work were actually spent at home taking care of your sick baby.  I’m sorry that if you got through the hardest part of breastfeeding, through to the part where you absolutely love nursing your baby, that you have to pump multiple times a day to maintain that relationship.  I’m sorry that this will be a source of stress, and that some of you will have to fight hard for every ounce.

For the mothers who own their own businesses… I am sorry that there is no safety net for people like you.  That some of you never quit working, despite having given birth to a human being.  I hope you were able to assemble enough support.

So yes, I am lucky that I had a choice at all.  I chose to take 19 weeks off.  I am privileged to have been able to take 13 of those weeks unpaid.  I am choosing to go back to my job, which I love.  My bags are packed and waiting by the door.  But there’s an invisible bag I’ll be carrying with me tomorrow.  This heavy baggage in my heart, this feeling of disappointment that every mother does not have a choice, this sorrow that they are not being allowed the time and space to transform.  I hope that some day soon, our country will realize that this is the most important work. 

 

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The Beauty In Bedsharing

 

bedsharing

 

This morning, I slipped under my nearly 3-year old daughter’s covers to wake her up with a kiss and a cuddle, but was met with resistance.

Her: Noooooo mommy, I didn’t ask you.  It’s wake-up time, we can’t cuggle. 

Me: Just a little cuggle? {I try to assume our usual position, by slipping my arm under her neck}

Her: No, your arm hurts my head. 

Me: Oh… that hurts my heart.  I wanted to cuggle you.

Her: It’s okay mommy, I still love you.

My heart shattered into a thousand pieces.  Where was my little baby girl?  Where had she gone?  She allowed me the small concession of carrying her out of her bed… but it’s only a matter of time before she’s too big to even do that with.

I tried.

I tried to capture her smallness.  I tried to hold on to the last breaths of her babyhood. But try as I might, it has slipped right out of my grasp.  Despite my efforts to slow down and enjoy every moment since everyone told me it goes so fast… all I have left are memories and photographs.  But it doesn’t mean that I can re-live it.  Not really. 

Some of my favorite memories of her as an infant will always be of bedsharing.  She always started the night in her own bed, but after her first wake-up of the night, I’d scoop her out of her room and bring her into our cozy nest to feed her and quickly soothe her back to sleep.  And for the most part that meant that we all got more sleep… except for the times I’d find myself staring at her while she slept.  I’d watch her tiny chest move up and down, and memorize every little detail of her perfect little face.  I’d think to myself this is crazy, what are you doing, go to sleep. But those memories, in the dead of night, the ones where there aren’t any pictures – are the clearest in my mind’s eye.

The morning cuddles were always the best.  There was always lots of cooing and giggling, which eventually morphed into babbling and games.  She’d drum on my belly, or rub her daddy’s back.  It usually ended with a ticklefest involving pretend spiders.  On the weekends, we used to be able to trick her into sleeping in with us.  But now she bounds into our room at 7 am every morning exclaiming It’s wake up time! I slept in my princess bed all by myself. We can’t sleep, the sun is shining. I want to watch something. Now sleeping in means lying in bed with my eyes closed, listening to a Tiger on TV sing catchy jingles about life lessons.     

When she was a baby, she slept in the crook of my arm, her hand always on me.  I could feel the rise and fall of her chest all night.  Eventually she got bigger and then she slept next to me, but I still curved my body around hers, close enough to still hear her breath.  And then one day, she could talk, and she began making very specific requests on how I “cuggled” her.  This arm here, mommy.  Don’t breathe on me, mommy.

I find myself wondering when it’ll be the last time.  On average, she woke up twice a night until she was a year old.  And then once a night until she was two.  But for the most part, she’s slept in her own bed all night for almost the last year (a sentence I never thought I’d say).  But there is still the occasional wake-up because of a nightmare, or a noise, or just the request Mommy I want to sleep in your bed with you.  There was one night, about a month before her brother was born, when I got just such a request.  I willingly obliged, preparing myself for the chance that this might be one of the last times that I might share a bed all night with her.  I memorized her sweet breath on my face.  Her little arms wrapped tightly around my neck.  Her legs propped up on the side of my growing belly.  I tried to capture her smallness.

I know that if we offered it, she’d still want to sleep in our bed.  But now that her brother is here, he’s claimed her old spot.  I’m still holding on to the fact that she even wants to sleep with me once in a while.  If daddy’s out of town and she asks, I let her.  When it’s the weekend and baby brother is napping and I’m tired too, I let her.  It’s not the same anymore, since I have to face the baby, acting as the barrier between them.  But now she says heart-melting things like Mommy I want to be close, and she drapes her arm over me, acting as the big spoon.  She’s the big spoon.  How did that happen?

My only regret is that I didn’t start bedsharing sooner with her.  I had heard all of the warnings during pregnancy; that it was dangerous, that I’d never get her out of my bed, and that there was a short window of time in which I needed to sleep train her or else she’d never learn how to sleep.  Everything in parenting had been presented as a choice, except for this.

But I had no idea how strong my biological need to be close to her {and her to me} would be.  Every bone in my tired, aching, postpartum body screamed at me to pick her up and sleep with her. She was the furthest from my body she had been in 9 months; she was unsettled, and I was unsettled. If I wasn’t with her, I’d constantly wake up to check the monitor to make sure she was okay.  She only wanted to sleep in our arms or on our chests.  She flat out refused to sleep in the co-sleeper in our room.  She’d wake up the second we laid her down in her crib.  Parenting in the modern, Western world just wasn’t agreeing with me {or with her}.

Eventually, I gave in to my intuition, did some careful research on safe bedsharing, and took the plunge. And it just felt right. Of course, I didn’t need much “permission” to give in to it.  I shared a bed with my parents until I was two, and my brother did the same.  I witnessed bedsharing as the norm when we’d visit extended family in India.  We never had a crib in our house.  In fact, I never even saw a crib until I was thirteen years old and started babysitting.  So, it wasn’t that big of a leap for me.

I can’t talk about this topic without acknowledging that it’s mired in controversy.  But an army of 10,000 pediatricians couldn’t have kept me from sleeping with my baby.  It’s like the CDC’s recent recommendations against alcohol for all young women.  It’s one-size fits all, and is so condemning in its tone that it fails to do the most important thing: actually educate people.  We’re mothers, not monsters.  We have brains and boobs and biological instincts, so just let us use them already.

If half of us are even occasionally bedsharing, but lying to our pediatricians about it because their response is just don’t do it instead of here’s how to do it safely, then no one wins.  But to be fair, even though the American Academy of Pediatrics doesn’t support bedsharing, it is supported by The Academy of Breastfeeding Medicine, the USA Breastfeeding Committee, La Leche League International, UNICEF, the WHO, and even the Breastfeeding section of the American Academy of Pediatrics (how’s that for a mixed message).  Just read anything by Dr. James McKenna and you’ll know where I stand.  Every family is different, and bedsharing isn’t for everyone. But it can be safe, is entirely natural, and the bottom line is: it worked for us.

After I went back to work full-time (which coincided with the dreaded 4-month sleep regression), bedsharing became a necessity to get a good night’s sleep.  After being apart all day, she missed me, and I missed her.  There was no way that I was going to spend precious time fruitlessly bouncing my baby back to sleep in her room for half an hour, only to have her wake up when I put her back in her crib, when she would peacefully fall asleep in my bed in 3 minutes flat.  Putting her down to sleep initially is a different story… but as long as the waking happened after I was ready to go to bed, I was fine with it.  As soon as I stopped treating her night-wakings like a problem, they stopped being one.

And now I just have these beautiful memories with my daughter, who is no longer a baby. But my son is a baby, and has been in my bed since the day he was born.  So I’m soaking it in and am recognizing all of the beauty in bedsharing…

There’s beauty in the fact that despite the early loss of my nursing relationship with my daughter, bedsharing restored our bond.  Those first 10 weeks of pumping every 3 hours meant that I lost precious time that I could have been holding her.  I made up for it by snuggling her and soothing her back to sleep in my bed.  When she was old enough to use sign language, she’d wake up in the morning, and sign for milk.  I’d sit up in bed and pump her a fresh bottle, while she clapped her hands with excitement and anticipation.

There’s beauty in the fact that it lets me better take care of my kids when they’re sick.  When my daughter went to bed with a low-grade fever, I was able to keep her close and feel her body heat enough to know when it spiked in the middle of the night so I could do something about it.  And when my son was congested and having difficulty sleeping, I could position him to be more comfortable so he could breathe.

There’s beauty in the fact that I sometimes get the privilege of catching a smile flash across their faces or hearing a laugh escape from their mouths.  What wonderful dreams they must have.

There’s beauty in the fact that every time my son startles awake, I don’t have to feed him.  I simply lay my hand on his chest, with my other arm touching the top of his head.  All it takes is my subtle touch, the awareness of my presence, to soothe him back to sleep.  It’s how we survived the fourth trimester.

There’s beauty in the fact that when my son does need to nurse, there’s no crying. It took me several weeks to even learn what his hunger cry sounded like, because I honestly never heard it at the beginning – he was always close enough to get the milk flowing before the tears were.

There’s beauty in the fact that when my son wakes up in the morning, his entire face lights up with delight as we lock eyes – the way he looks at me sets my heart on fire.  He does a whole body stretch like he’s had the best sleep of his entire life. He latches on to nurse, but unlatches often to smile a gummy, milky grin at me.

There’s beauty in the fact that our mornings start together.  My daughter creeps into our bed in the morning, telling us about her dreams. She pokes and prods at her baby brother, he babbles back at her, she scratches her daddy’s back, kisses are doled out, we all tickle each other, and start our days with smiles on our faces and joy in our hearts.

So when I look back on this season of my life, I’ll always the cherish the beauty that bedsharing brought to our days {and nights}.

 

 

 

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The Fourth Trimester: Take Two

fourthtrimester

I love the newborn period.

There.  I said it.

Not something you hear every day, huh?  Normally you hear stories of intense sleep deprivation, aching nipples, a questionable amount of time since the last shower, and a lot of crying.  And if I was talking about my first child, that might be pretty accurate.  But I’m talking about my second child.  And with a second child comes the confidence of an experienced mother.  A mother who knows what to expect, and more importantly, what not to expect.  And that, I think, makes all the difference – for expectation is the thief of joy.

I expected nothing from my baby this time around. Nothing besides the expectation that he would act like a newborn baby. 

I did not expect that he would eat for a certain amount of time, or at certain intervals.  I just fed him on demand, for however long he wanted to, as frequently as he wanted to.  I trusted that he knew what his body needed to grow.  I didn’t freak out when he wanted to nurse every 15 minutes for 4 straight hours right before a growth spurt.  As a result, I have a healthy milk supply, and a thriving baby who’s become efficient enough at nursing to down 5 ounces in 5 minutes if he’s hungry.

I did not obsess over having a huge freezer stash of milk.  My body responds too well to a pump; it means that daily pumping for a week put my body into an uncomfortable oversupply.  So, I pump once every 5 days, just to have a bottle in the fridge.  If we don’t use it, on the fifth day I freeze it and then pump a fresh bottle.  He’s taken about 6 bottles so far, just to ensure that he’s amenable to them when I go back to work.  I have enough in the freezer for an emergency, and have taken to heart the mantra feed your baby, not the freezer. 

I did not expect that he would eat at certain times of day.  Like I said, I fed on demand, and I didn’t even try to predict it.  To not plan my day around having to pump this time around meant I could go anywhere.  I just left the house whenever I wanted to, without regard to the time.  If he got hungry, I nursed him.  In parking lots, in dressing rooms, in restaurants, on walks, at the park, wherever.  And it felt so freeing to be unchained from the pump this time around.  Have boobs, will travel.

I did not expect that he would take scheduled naps. I didn’t stress myself out about “nap times” and fighting to get him down to keep on a schedule.  I just followed his cues, and whenever he got fussy after a period of awake time, I put him down and he went right to sleep.  Except for the few times he didn’t, of course, in which case I held him, bounced him, rocked him, nursed him, or whatever else he needed from me to drift peacefully off to sleep.  I didn’t worry about holding him too much or spoiling him, because those things aren’t possible. All in all, he’s been a wonderful napper, and all I had to do was listen to him and let him set his rhythm.

I did not expect him to sleep long stretches at night on his own.  Over the last 12 weeks, it always seems like the first question that people have asked me is how is he sleeping? How many times does he wake at night? Truthfully, I have no idea, and I don’t care.  He sleeps with me, and when he stirs, I stir.  I nurse him right there in the bed, and after he latches, we both drift right back to sleep.  There’s rarely any crying, I don’t have to get out of the bed, and I don’t have to spend a bunch of time getting him (or myself) back to sleep – it’s quite literally, dreamy.

I did not expect that much of myself.  I let my husband wait on me hand and foot for the 3 weeks that he was off on paternity leave.  I didn’t prepare a meal, I didn’t wash the dishes, and I didn’t feel guilty about it at all.  Instead, I took a shower every single day. I took a nap with my son every day for at least the first 6 weeks.  I let my body heal from birth.  I didn’t care about losing weight right away; I know my milk supply dips when I cut calories, so that’ll just have to wait – all in good time.  I didn’t worry about how much I “accomplished” each day.  Snuggling my son while watching 6 seasons of The Good Wife is accomplishment enough for me.

This feeling of freedom and ease with motherhood did not come easy or automatically.  I remember going through all of this with my first, where every decision about every aspect of her life had to be carefully considered and decided upon.  It made the newborn period stressful – when everybody has an opinion, and you’re not quite sure what yours is yet because the sheer number of decisions and the total upheaval of your pre-parent life is just so overwhelming. This time – there are no decisions to be made, just instincts to follow.

And I feel so free. 

And I don’t mean to make it sound like it has been easy.  On the contrary; my neck and shoulders are constantly sore, it’s frustrating to always eat in a hurry with one hand, the dynamic of parenting two children can be tough, and I really don’t get much done.

But I know this too shall pass.  

Unfortunately, it will pass.

The only times I’ve cried have been about how fast he’s growing and how fast it’s all going.  I’m writing this post as I watch my son on the baby monitor; it’s the first time I’ve put him down to sleep for the first stretch of the night in his crib.  I used to put him in the bassinet in the living room – but he has started spinning in his sleep (he has already rotated 90 degrees since I began this post), so the bassinet is officially too small.  And it’s the first of many things that he will outgrow.

And now the fourth trimester is over.  And I’ll never have a newborn again.

The only thing I’ve expected is change.  Change coming at me so exceedingly fast that it’s a blur.  Where one day, his hands in his mouth means he’s hungry, and the next day it means hey, I found my hands!  Where one day he fits curled up on my chest, and the next day I’m putting away the tiny clothes forever.  Where one day he’s looking off into space at blurry shapes, and the next day he’s staring into my eyes, smiling his mega-watt, heart-melting smile.

So, forgive me if you think I take and post too many pictures of my kids.  Because I’m having a moment.  Like, some of the best moments of my life.

 

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No is a complete sentence: An un-medicated hospital birth story, and why I switched providers

I want to preface this post with this: I know women who have had great experiences with my former OB’s practice, and the hospital I delivered my daughter at.  This not a general statement about either of them, but rather, my own personal experience.  If you had a great experience with them, then I’m truly happy for you.

My pregnancy with my daughter was unexpected; I hadn’t done any research, and was sort of thrown into the whole thing the second I saw that plus sign staring back at me. When it came to making my first appointment, I went with the easiest option: the OB I had already been seeing for my annual exam for the last 5 years.  I knew a few people who had delivered with his practice, so I figured it was a good choice.

My prenatal appointments were nothing like I expected.  I thought we’d spend a lot of time talking about pregnancy, about what to do and what not to do, etc.  But for the most part, I was sent home with a bag of handouts after my first visit, and we discussed the pregnancy very little.  Most of each appointment was spent doing an ultrasound, talking about what he saw, and then what we’d do at the next appointment.  Reflecting back, I realize that my OB was what I’d call “ultrasound-happy.”  I had ultrasounds at 9, 12, 16, 20, 28, and 37 weeks.  At the time, I didn’t know that these were mostly unnecessary ultrasounds – of course I wanted to see my baby.  But these were 3D ultrasounds, and that much exposure is really not recommended unless there’s a reason for them; ultrasounds do heat tissue slightly.  They haven’t been proven to be harmful, but unless medically necessary, there’s no reason to do something that has unknown long-term risks.  But they were never presented as optional, or as an option with any potential risks.  It was just something they did, and I didn’t know any different at the time.

I always wondered if the next appointment would finally be the one where we’d start talking about my birth plan; he hadn’t asked me about it yet.  It made me nervous that he hadn’t brought it up – I felt deep down that it was probably a bad sign.  By the time my 24 week appointment rolled around, I finally asked if we could discuss it.  I told him I wanted to plan for an un-medicated, low-intervention birth.  His response?  Um, okay.  Most women don’t tell me they’re doing an un-medicated birth until they show up and it’s too late for an epidural anyways.  Just be prepared for the chance that it might not turn out the way you want. 

Not the response I was expecting or hoped for.  Where was the support?  Where was the encouragement?  Instead, he chose to immediately cast doubt on my plan?  I had no illusions, I knew that birth doesn’t necessarily always go to plan; but that didn’t mean that I didn’t have the right to express my preferences.

As I was leaving that appointment, he felt the need to tell me a birth story about a woman who wanted a natural birth, refused induction, and had grand ideas about the baby just falling out of her.  But then she of course had to have a really high intervention birth that resulted in a c-section.  “She had wanted to be like an animal in the wild, like some sort of cow,” he smirked.  Is he really making fun of another patient right now to me? 

I left the appointment uneasy.  Uneasy about how this doctor had reacted to my plan, uneasy about how he had laughed about another patient’s “ideas”, and uneasy about what I was going to do next.  I knew one thing for certain: I couldn’t stay with this doctor. He had shown me his true colors.

However, for some reason, I was scared to switch practices.  Call it inertia, or fear of the unknown. So I took the easiest step I could: started seeing the other doctor in the practice.  I was relieved to find out that he was supportive of my birth plan.  He was open to doing delayed cord clamping, and said I could labor however I wanted to.  The rest of the pregnancy went smoothly, and I felt like I was in good hands.

However, what I didn’t realize was that there is a difference between being supportive and knowledgeable about natural birth.  When it came right down to it, my husband and I were on our own to make this happen.  (In hindsight, a doula would have been extremely helpful, but we were naïve in thinking we wanted this experience to be about just us.  Little did we know that a hospital birth involves very little privacy anyways).

And your doctor is only one part of the equation; the other part is the hospital they deliver at.  He happened to deliver at what is locally known as the “baby factory.”  At the time, this felt like a comforting idea – man, they deliver so many babies, they must know what they’re doing.  Reflecting back, the idea of a factory is exactly what it sounds like – high efficiency, high intervention.  I had no idea that I was walking into a situation where the nurses rarely see physiologic birth.  When I tell people now that I had an un-medicated birth there, they look at me like I’m a unicorn with 2 heads.  Here’s an abbreviated version of the story:

I labored peacefully at home for 9 hours before going to the hospital, as I knew that was my best chance for sticking to my birth plan – I was already dilated 6 cm by the time I arrived, and was in active labor.  When being admitted, I asked the charge nurse if I could be paired with a nurse who was experienced with natural birth.  Oh all our nurses are supportive of natural birth, she chirped.  Not so.  My labor & delivery nurse was the opposite of natural birth friendly.  She immediately offered me an epidural, even though I had explicitly told her I wasn’t interested.  I was wary of how my time with her was going to go based on this very first interaction.

After some time on the monitor and getting admitted, she finally left. I began alternating between 3 positions:  sitting on the edge of the bed, sitting on my yoga ball, and on my hands and knees on the bed.  This is when my husband became a HUGE help to me, and really stepped up.  As the contractions became closer and closer together, my needs were changing by the minute.  He provided my back with much needed counter-pressure, fetched me water and juice, got me a cold washcloth with my lavender oil, and helped me through each and every contraction.  I truly couldn’t have done it without him.

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And then the nurse came back.  She doubted me when I said I was progressing quickly – oh you’re a first time mom, you have at least a few more hours before we need to call your doctor again.  I insisted again that things were moving quickly.  She reluctantly checked me, and she did so roughly; she was clearly used to women on epidurals who couldn’t feel it.  She was shocked to find that I was right, that I knew what my body was doing, and she sprang into action, getting the room ready for delivery and called my doctor again.  She pushed the epidural idea at me one more time, as it’d be my last chance – I told you lady, it’s not on the menu for me. Leave. Me. Alone.

I was about to go through transition – what most people call the hardest part of labor.  Thankfully, the nurse left the room again, so I got to do this in peace.  Slow-paced breathing and focal points were no longer enough to manage the pain, so I changed my breathing pattern a few times, using the He-Blow breath and the fast-patterned breathing techniques we had learned.  I never thought that vocalization would be a useful technique for me – I always thought it was cheesy when I saw it in the birthing videos, but it turned out to be extremely helpful.  Repeating phrases like “I can do it” and “I trust my body” were essential in distracting me.  When I could no longer say these phrases myself, I asked my husband to talk to me throughout each contraction, repeating the phrase “You’re doing it.”

My doctor arrived to check in on my progress.  My water still hadn’t broken yet, so he provided me with two options:  Either he could break it for me, or he could go do a c-section he needed to do, be back in 1 hour, and see if it had broken on its own and if I was ready to push when he got back.  I knew I’d have my doctor’s undivided attention if I waited the hour, so that’s what I opted to do.

The next hour was pretty hard – and this is what helped me understand why many women choose to get an epidural.  If I hadn’t been prepared with all of the breathing, visualization, vocalization, and comfort techniques, it would have been scary.  But the preparation allowed me to remain confident, and take everything 1 contraction at a time, with my husband’s help.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so focused in my life – and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so powerful.  I remember thinking of the word “power” in my head, convincing myself that my body had the power to do this.  I did everything I could to relax my body and my muscles in between every contraction.  Near the end of this hour, the contractions were practically on top of each other – sometimes I only got a 15 second break in between them.

When my doctor showed back up, he said I was at 10 cm, and he broke my water. Now there were 3 nurses in the room, and I was supposed to start pushing.  All of a sudden my quiet, peaceful labor bubble was filled with people telling me what to do.

The 2 new nurses were supportive, as was my doctor.  But like I said, supportive is not the same as knowledgeable.  They weren’t used to women eating and drinking during labor – so they didn’t to remind me to empty my bladder before pushing, resulting in some pretty ineffective pushing for a while.  They also fell into the norm of directed pushing, where they’d yell out when to push, and count to 10 loudly 2-3 times per contraction, until I was pushing so hard that veins were popping out of my head.  All of these things are unnecessary and counterproductive when having an un-medicated birth – they weren’t allowing me to listen to my body. And they’re actually damaging to your body and pelvic floor. I knew that holding my breath during pushing wasn’t good (a relaxed jaw means a relaxed body and cervix), but they kept telling me to do it that way. I didn’t think my body was ready to push – all I wanted was to take a little break before starting again.  But they were yelling at me to push during every contraction.  And when everyone in the room is telling you what to do, it’s extremely hard to stop the show and get off the stage.  I know I didn’t feel comfortable with what was happening, but I was too swept up in the moment to know how to make it stop or ask for anything else.  Their direction had taken my power away.

Going back to my first negative nurse: apparently the position I was pushing in wasn’t “convenient” for her, because the monitor kept slipping off of my belly.  She repeatedly told me it’d be easier for her if I was on my back.  I refused, I wasn’t comfortable in that position.  She asked if she could use internal fetal monitoring, since I was moving around so much.  I’m sorry, you want to screw an unnecessary electrode into my perfectly healthy baby’s head because I’m moving around while in labor and you have better things to do than to hold the monitor still on my belly?  Never mind the fact that continuous fetal monitoring isn’t evidence-based?   Her negativity was just too much for me, it was shutting my body down.  I don’t consider it a coincidence at all that my daughter was born 15 minutes after this nurse’s shift ended and she had left the room.

Even though I tried pushing in different positions, they eventually pressured me onto my back (which is the most convenient position for them to see what’s going on, but unfortunately happens to be the position that your pelvis is the smallest in.)  Gravity was no longer helping me, and my daughter was stuck for a while behind my pubic bone.  By the time my daughter was crowning, an hour and 45 minutes into pushing (which, by the way, is a perfectly normal amount of time to push as a first time mom), they should have told me to slow down to protect my perineum; instead, their impatience made them tell me to push harder, making my 10 lb. 1 oz. daughter come barreling out of me.

Yes, at the end of the day, I accomplished my goal of having an un-medicated birth.  But it didn’t mean that it was the birth experience I desired.  It doesn’t mean that I was respected during it.  I had to fight for it.  I had to refuse unnecessary IV fluids, I had to demand wireless monitoring, I had to turn down continuous pressure to get an epidural; I had to simultaneously stand up for myself while trying to relax and focus on the hard work of labor.

Yet when I became pregnant again, I still debated whether it was worth switching practices & hospitals just to potentially have a better experience.  Once again, I was scared of the unknown.  Was it better to go with the devil I knew?  Could I be better prepared this time?  I think you create a strange emotional connection to the person who assisted in delivering your baby, even if it wasn’t the perfect experience.  They were there with you in your most intimate and vulnerable of moments.  You were high on birth hormones.  And after all, he did save me from bleeding to death of a postpartum hemorrhage.  All of these things gave me pause.

But I was making excuses.  At the end of the day, we all deserve to be treated with respect in childbirth.  Regardless of the type of birth: homebirth, hospital birth, epidural, induction, c-section, VBAC – whatever.  We all deserve care providers who practice evidence-based medicine.  We deserve informed consent.  I know too many women who had unnecessary c-sections because of a cascade of interventions that were done without their consent.   You ever want a reality check about the current state of maternity care, go read some birth stories on ImprovingBirth.org’s Facebook page.  Birth trauma is real – up to a third of mothers describe their birth as traumatic.  These stories have literally made me sob myself to sleep because they are so distressing.  Too many providers are ignoring the role the mother has in her own birth. This is so hard to explain to a first time mom – you assume that your providers practice evidence-based care, you assume that everything they do is the best thing for you.  But maternity care has become so screwed up – so few providers even know what a normal birth looks like.  You have to be your own advocate. My birth wasn’t traumatic; but it wasn’t respectful care.

So I made the leap.  I’m now with a midwifery practice that delivers at a hospital with the lowest c-section rate in the state (less than half the rate of my first hospital).  It’s the opposite of a baby factory – there are only 6 labor and delivery rooms, and they offer water birth.  I’ve also chosen to use a doula for this birth.  And I finally feel supported.

After our first midwife appointment, and then again after our hospital tour, my husband looked at me bewildered.  You mean everything you had to fight for before is just standard of care here?  Limited ultrasounds. Food & drink during labor.  Low lighting, showers, and tubs in labor & delivery rooms.  Non-directed pushing.  Delayed cord clamping.  All of it standard and supported.

And more than just support – knowledge. I asked the first midwife I saw about non-directed pushing.  She immediately started giving me examples of how women naturally push, and even started making low guttural sounds to demonstrate how it helps open you up.  (Basically the opposite of holding your breath and pushing until you’re purple in the face.)  Every appointment involves talking about birth, answering every question I have, and coming up with a plan.  They understand and trust physiologic birth, and the default is no intervention.

And more than just knowledge – respect.  I’ve heard the same message over and over again from this practice: you’re in charge of your own healthcare.  You have the right to refuse anything.  I’ve been given options with everything that has come up.  There’s this test you can do, here are the pros and cons, it’s your choice if you want to do it or not.  No thanks, I don’t need a test with a high false positive rate,  I already have enough anxiety about this pregnancy.  You can choose 1 of 3 options for gestational diabetes testing.  Awesome, I choose jelly beans over that gross glucose drink any day.  Your baby is measuring big, so you’re eligible for another ultrasound at 37 weeks if you’d prefer.  But you can also decline it.  Sweet, I’ll decline it, because I’m not scared of a big baby, my body’s done it before, and I won’t do anything different (e.g. get induced early) even if he is big.

At my most recent appointment, I was chatting with my midwife about the hospital policies for postpartum care.  Even though this new-to-me hospital purports to be more baby-friendly, you never know which nurse you’re going to run into.  She said something that no healthcare provider has ever said to me: No is a complete sentence. 

If they want to take the baby off your chest to do footprints and measurements?  No is a complete sentence. They can do those things while he’s still on your belly.

If they want to take your baby to the nursery to do the admissions process?  No is a complete sentence. They can do that process in the room.

If they say that they have to do an exam in the nursery because they don’t have the staff to do it in the room?  The staffing isn’t your problem.  No is a complete sentence.

I was amazed.  Here my midwife was, handing me back my power.  Telling me to stand up for my choices.   And telling me that she would support me.

I don’t know how my birth will go – but I feel confident that I’ve chosen a provider who will give me the respect that I deserve, and involve me in decisions.  And if I wasn’t confident of that, then I wouldn’t be afraid to switch providers again, even late into my pregnancy.  It took me a while to get to this place.  I know a midwife isn’t right for everyone’s situation – I know you can find respectful care with an OB too if that’s what you need.  But it means you have to raise your expectations.  If you’re not receiving the care you deserve – find someone else.  It’s never too late.

No is a complete sentence.

Breastfeeding Success: Shaming or Inspiring? Formula-Feeding: Guilt or Anger?

Breastfeeding Shame

World Breastfeeding Week is technically over, but it’s still National Breastfeeding Month, so I’m writing one last post on the subject.  There was one particular article going around this past week that really rubbed me the wrong way – it was in TIME, and it was written by a doctor.  I refuse to actually link to it because it’s filled with gross inaccuracies and twisted data.  But the main message was that World Breastfeeding Week shouldn’t be celebrated because it makes mothers feel guilty if they weren’t able to breastfeed.

Hold up.

Since when is celebrating one person’s success shaming someone else?  That’s like saying “I refuse to support The Biggest Loser because it makes others feel guilty that they’re sitting on the couch, not losing weight.”

Who decides if something is shaming or inspiring?

Because I know I’ve been inspired by other women’s breastfeeding stories.  At 6 weeks postpartum I met another woman who had exclusively pumped for a year, and thought wow, maybe I can do this.  I’m inspired by mother-and-baby duos who were able to move on to a successful nursing relationship after having a tongue-tie revised.  I’m inspired by friends who struggled with their first baby but had a smooth journey with their second baby.  None of their success shames me or makes me feel guilty.

And if it did make me feel guilty, is the answer to walk around with my hands over my ears in an effort to avoid hearing anything that might hurt my feelings?  How do we ever hope to learn new things if we allow our guilt to get in the way?  And why should 1 person’s guilt prevent others from hearing the message?  I don’t feel guilty when I learn about the benefits of directly nursing over exclusively pumping; I know that the way I did it wasn’t the ideal, and I’m glad to know that information.  Do you really want to live your life in the dark?

Like I said in my first post on this topic, 85% of new mothers want to breastfeed exclusively for 3 months or more, yet only 32% meet their goal.  If you’re in that 53% who didn’t meet your goal, it’s not my place to tell you how to feel about it; you’re entitled to your feelings.  But I do want to tell you how I’d feel about it.

Maybe you feel guilty because you thought you couldn’t make enough milk to satisfy your baby during those early weeks, because they wanted to eat all the time.  I’d feel angry that we live in a culture that teaches women that our babies need to be on schedules right away.  That we don’t educate women about cluster feeding and about growth spurts and about how milk production actually works.  That we don’t encourage on-demand breastfeeding.  That we don’t set the expectation that every mother-baby duo is different, and will feed at different intervals.  I’m angry that an un-educated relative casually suggested a formula top-off because your baby seemed hungry.  That person didn’t know that the formula would cause your baby to suckle less, thus demanding less milk from your breast, thus reducing your milk supply, and fulfilling the issue that you didn’t have to begin with.  I’m angry that someone didn’t tell you that how much you pump isn’t an indication of how much milk you are making or how much your baby is getting.  Breastfeeding is an age-old biologic process, not one that listens to our 21st century clock or technology.  These are all cultural problems; we’ve gotten so far away from breastfeeding that we’ve lost our knowledge about it, and our expectations are all out of whack.  So I wouldn’t feel guilty, I’d feel angry.

Maybe you feel guilty because you were pressured to start giving formula in public, because someone stared at you or sneered at you or had the gall to actually say something ugly to you when you tried nursing your hungry baby while (gasp) living your life.  I’d feel angry that we live in a culture that has over-sexualized breasts to the point that everyone has forgotten about their function.  That mothers have to fear being wrongfully kicked out of an establishment because some employee doesn’t know the laws protecting a mother’s right to breastfeed in public.  That we even need laws protecting our right to feed a hungry child.  That most of the laws don’t have enforcement provisions, so you have no legal recourse if you are kicked out of somewhere.  I wouldn’t feel guilt, I’d feel angry.

Maybe you feel guilty because you couldn’t keep up with your baby’s demands when you went back to work.  I’d feel angry that we force women back to work before they’ve even had a chance to establish their milk supply.  That we’re the only industrialized nation in the world that doesn’t mandate paid maternity leave.  That despite new laws requiring employers to provide reasonable break times and a place to pump at work, not everyone is on board yet.  That many mothers still have to pump in a bathroom, are forced to pump at times that don’t match their body’s needs, and are discriminated against and have hours cut because of their requests.  That as a nation, we have so little respect for women and children that we don’t do everything we can to support this critical time (we can’t all work at Netflix).  I wouldn’t feel guilty, I’d feel angry.

Maybe you feel guilty because you listened to bad advice from a professional you trusted.  I’d feel angry that the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends 1 year of breastfeeding but then does very little to actually support it.  That I constantly hear about pediatricians making recommendations about infant feeding that aren’t evidence-based.  That we still have to worry about postpartum nurses “sneaking” formula bottles to our babies in the nursery, when their stomachs are still the size of a cherry. That the billion-dollar formula industry is the one actually pulling the strings; they’re in our doctors’ ears, in our hospital discharge bags, filling our shelves with samples before our babies are even born, preying on a mother’s worst insecurities at her most vulnerable moment.  That they cast a cloud of doubt on our abilities, that they make us lose trust in our bodies.  I wouldn’t feel guilty, I’d feel angry.

Or maybe you did everything you could, and despite your best efforts and doing everything right, you truly couldn’t produce enough milk.  Or your baby was born prematurely and wasn’t coordinated or strong enough to make breastfeeding successful.  Or you had to take a medication that prevented you from breastfeeding, or your child had some other medical complication.  Nature dealt you an unlucky hand.  You got a raw deal.  Guilt isn’t the right emotion here; it might make you feel sad, but I hope it never makes you feel guilty.

Maybe you feel guilty because you’re done having kids and won’t have the opportunity for another “do-over.”  Maybe you don’t have an opportunity to find inspiration from others’ success.  But don’t you care about what the experience is going to be like for your daughters?  For your granddaughters?  I know you do care, because you’re a good mother, regardless of how you fed your children.  Please let go of your guilt for their sake, for progress sake.

Or maybe none of these roadblocks were in your way.  Maybe the decision was entirely yours from the get-go not to breastfeed.  Or life circumstances meant you made a decision to stop when you were ready.  These things are all your prerogative.  Breastfeeding is a relationship, which means it has to work for both partiesNo one is impeding on your freedom to make your own decisions – I just hope that it was truly your decision, and not one made for you by our society’s cultural expectations.  And a decision you make of your own free will should never make you feel guilty.  If you were confident in your decision, then there’s no reason that World Breastfeeding Week should offend you.  I’ll support you if you support me. And I’m sorry about all of those ugly people who do actually directly shame you for formula-feeding.  They undermine the entire cause.

There’s a million and one other scenarios that I didn’t cover.  But as you can see, I’m of the mindset that guilt has no place here.  How will we ever improve our breastfeeding rates if we’re too afraid to share information for fear of making someone feel guilty?  In just a decade, Cambodia was able to increase their exclusive breastfeeding rates in the first 6 months from 11% to 74% through the use of a national media campaign, extensive health-worker training, and establishment of mother support groups.  It takes educating an entire society, not just the mothers.  They certainly wouldn’t have accomplished this if they were too afraid of offending a few people.

So it’s your choice.  You can either feel shamed by stories of breastfeeding success, or you can feel inspired.  You can either feel guilty about what happened to you, or you can feel angry toward the system and culture that is failing so many of us.  Although it’s not enough to stop at anger, it’s not a good emotion to dwell in; it has to be turned into positive action.  Become a more active participant in your healthcare, and have more meaningful conversations with your doctors. Demand more from our lawmakers and our employers.  Normalize breastfeeding so that some day, our daughters won’t have to fight for where they can feed their children.  I can’t wait to see that day.

Failed by the System: A Breastfeeding (Pumping) Journey Part 2


Pumping

I am already overwhelmed and humbled by the response to my last blog post.  The multitude of friends who have had bumps along the road in their own breastfeeding journeys reaffirms why we need to be talking about this.  I promised a follow-up with the specific details of my breastfeeding journey.  It’s longer than I anticipated, but I wanted to remember the details while I still could.  And I had a friend message me today with questions about a situation similar to mine, so I wrote this in a hurry for her.  So here goes…

My daughter’s first breastfeed during our golden hour after birth was more like a breast-lick.  She never really got latched on in the delivery room, but I didn’t have time to worry about it.  I was in the middle of a postpartum hemorrhage, and she had to be taken off my chest so that they could more effectively massage my belly down.  Truthfully, it was all a haze.

After we were transferred to our postpartum room, our attempt at breastfeeding started in earnest.  Immediately she was screaming while I tried to get her latched.  My nurse stacked some pillows up, sandwiched my boob in her hand, and tried to shove it into my daughter’s tiny mouth.  She stayed on for maybe a minute, then popped off.  Try again.  On. Off.  Try again.  On. Off.  So went the next 4 hours of cluster feeding.  In between each “feed” my fingers were flying across my phone’s keyboard, desperately trying to figure out what might be going on.  I knew she wasn’t getting much, if anything.  She wasn’t content at all, she was just falling asleep in between feeds from exhaustion.  Nothing about her latch was correct.  She couldn’t open her mouth wide enough to get deep enough, and her upper lip was never able to flange out.  At 3 am, about 12 hours after her birth, I buzzed the nurse practically in tears.  I need a spoon.  Show me how to hand express. 

I expressed my liquid gold into a plastic spoon and my daughter gulped it down.  Ahhhh.  I could finally feel us both relax a little bit.  First thing in the morning, she was taken away briefly for her pediatrician exam.  A little while later the pediatrician came to my room and discussed his exam.  Everything’s great, she’s perfectly healthy.  But she’s lost 7% of her birth weight already, so we need to keep an eye on that. 7%?  Already?? I thought we’d have more time to figure this out.

Shortly afterwards, a lactation consultant came to see us.  Oh thank God you’re here, help us. She reviewed our chart and the pediatrician’s notes.  Your pediatrician has suggested formula supplementation due to weight loss.  What?  Already?  You’ve got to be kidding me.  It’s been less than 24 hours, and you’re already giving up on me?

She observed our feeding, and wrinkled her nose a bit.  I’m going to come back again in a few hours to watch you again.  She rolled in a hospital-grade pump and showed me how to use it.  I hadn’t brought my hands-free bra to the hospital, so I had to hold the flanges up while I pumped.  I didn’t care though – at that moment, I was supremely grateful for technology.  This amazing thing called the breast pump would save me.  More liquid gold.  More gulping.  More relief.

A few hours later the lactation consultant came back and observed us again.  Afterwards she stuck her finger in my baby’s mouth and felt around.  She has a bubble palate.  Your nipple isn’t long enough to hit her palate and stimulate her sucking reflex.  So you’re basically telling me that my body is incompatible with my baby’s?  How is that even possible?  I didn’t even know that was a thing.  She provided no explanation, she just said it matter-of-factly and then pulled out a nipple shield – think of it like a little silicone sombrero for your nipple.  The idea was that it would help “reach” her high palate and trigger her sucking reflex better.  We tried the shield for the next few feedings – and while it made it less painful on me, it didn’t seem to make my baby’s latch any better.  She continued her pop on, pop off routine.  I asked the LC about why my baby’s lip wouldn’t flange out, because I knew that was a key to making a tight seal.  She just shrugged her shoulders and told me I needed to keep flipping it out manually until she learned that was the way it was supposed to be.  Despite all of my manual manipulations, her lip always returned right back to where it was.

We survived another night, struggling with latching, pumping, and spoon-feeding, with a revolving door of postpartum nurses who would pull and prod at my breasts.  The next day before discharge, I desperately asked the LC  – If she’s still not latching well once my milk comes in, what should I do? 

This is the moment where this first lactation consultant failed me.  She could have observed that the pump flanges she had given me were not the right size, and that they’d eventually contribute to sore and cracked nipples.  She could have suggested syringe feeding so that we could avoid nipple confusion.  She could have told me about paced bottle feeding so that my baby wouldn’t develop a flow preference.  She could have introduced me to the idea of a Supplemental Nursing System (SNS) to help keep my baby happy & full at the breast, and prevent a breast aversion.  She could have told me that there was probably more to the story than just the bubble palate.  She could have suggested I go ahead and make an outpatient appointment for lactation, that they’d be able to tell me more after we did some before & after feeding weighs to see how she was transferring milk.  She could have told me that the earliest appointments available for lactation were at least 14 days out.  14 days is a lifetime in a nursing relationship – that’s at least 112 feeds.

Instead, in this moment when she could have said so much, she handed me a bag filled with disposable bottle nipples.  It spoke louder than all of the things she could have said.  A screaming vote of no-confidence.  A lactation consultant, a trained professional who was supposed know about breastfeeding, was essentially telling me that she didn’t think there was another way besides the bottle.

And then literally moments later, the nurse walked in with my discharge paperwork and a “gift bag” to send me home with.  Inside this bag were some pamphlets, and a 4-pack of formula bottles.  I was hearing the message loud and clear: We don’t know how else to help you, and now you’re on your own.  No wonder so many women quit breastfeeding before they even leave the hospital.

Once we were home, we tried just nursing the entire first night.  By morning, my nipples looked like a new tube of lipstick, but raw and cracked, and my baby was not content.  However, my milk had come in, so spoon feeding didn’t seem like it was an efficient option anymore.  I reluctantly reached for that first disposable bottle nipple and screwed it onto the first bottle of milk I had pumped.  I hadn’t planned on introducing a bottle for at least 3 weeks; everything I had read said that I needed to establish breastfeeding first.  But when your baby is eating every 2 hours, for an hour at a time, there’s no time to figure out another solution on the fly.  The first priority is always to feed the baby.

Our pediatrician’s visit on day 3 indicated that she had lost 10% of her birth weight.  However, I assured the pediatrician that we’d get it turned around; my milk had come in, and now we could ensure she was getting it.  She said I wouldn’t have to supplement if I’d come in for weight checks every other day until she was back up to birth weight.  There was that threat of formula supplementation again, without any suggestions of what else to do.  I was resolved to do whatever it took to avoid it – my body was making milk.

So we settled into a new normal; I ordered more pumping parts (this time sized correctly) on Amazon (thank God for Prime), and started pumping around the clock.  Baby would nurse, then I would pump, then I would feed the pumped milk in a bottle.  Maybe a 30 minute or hour break, and then repeat.  Breaks were mostly devoted to self-care; recovering from a bad tear & postpartum hemorrhage are no joke.  I had lost so much blood that I needed to take iron supplements to keep my energy up.

Soon I got 1 bottle ahead, and the routine changed a bit.  Baby would nurse, I’d feed the bottle I pumped the previous session, and then pump for the next feed.  Eventually I got coordinated enough to feed a bottle and pump at the same time.  Eight times a day on days I felt I was making enough milk, 10 times per day on days I got nervous about my milk supply, 12 times per day during growth spurts.  I mimicked her feeding pattern – if she ate, I pumped.  My sweet husband washed all of the bottles and pump parts several times a day, changed diapers, ensured I remained fed and hydrated, and comforted me whenever I fell apart.  Soon my daughter was back at birth weight and climbing.

I read everything I could on milk supply and pumping (thank God for kellymom.com).  If I couldn’t successfully nurse my baby, then I was determined to kick ass at this making milk thing. I did everything I could to reduce my stress and relax (by binge watching Arrested Development in 15 minute increments). I learned how prolactin levels are highest between 1 and 5 am, and how activating prolactin receptors is the key to long-term milk supply.  So I set my alarm for 1, 3, and 5 am, and diligently pumped.  I learned about power pumping, and did 10-minute on / 10-minute off sessions for an hour during baby’s naps.  I took fenugreek supplements and my supply practically doubled overnight.  I learned about how to massage while pumping, and doubled it again.

It was the hardest thing I had ever done in my life.  And that’s saying something, considering the fact that I had just given birth to a 10 pound baby without drugs.  This was much harder.  All jokes aside though, my birth actually had a large role to play here.  Whenever I felt like I couldn’t do it anymore, when I wanted to just sleep through my next date with my pump, I drew strength from my birth.  If I could do that, I can do anything.  My birth had unleashed a power inside of me that I didn’t know existed.  It made me ferocious and confident in my motherhood.  Besides, this was my job right now.  To feed my daughter.  This was a brief moment in time, and I was going to figure it out.

I should note that bottle-feeding was not going great.  My daughter still couldn’t flange her lip out, which meant she couldn’t get a tight seal on the bottle, which meant she was getting lots of air, and lots of milk was dribbling out of her mouth.  And her high palate meant that I had to constantly keep an eye on the bottle to make sure she hadn’t compressed it to the point where nothing could come out.  We tried at least 5 bottle types before finding one that she couldn’t compress.   Unfortunately, my nipples were not so lucky.

2 weeks in, I finally had an outpatient lactation appointment, this time with a different consultant.  We weighed my baby before I nursed, she nursed for 30 minutes, and then we weighed her again.

½ an ounce.  In 30 minutes.  My heart sank.  I was making plenty of milk; she just couldn’t transfer it efficiently.

The lactation consultant suggested that I rent a scale for a week and see if it was just a fluke, or if it was a consistent issue.  She also confirmed that the issue was likely due to a high palate, and suggested that I wear soft shells in between feedings to help draw out my nipples more.

I weighed her before and after nursing sessions for the next week.  The story was the same every time.  30 minutes.  0.4 ounces.  0.5 ounces.  Never more than 0.6 ounces.  I went back to lactation, returned the scale, and hoped for another suggestion.  The LC thought that my baby could benefit from occupational therapy to strengthen her suck.  Another week went by before I could get in to see the OT.  She gave me some tongue exercises to do with my daughter, and told me to start doing suck training with a gumdrop pacifier.  None of this added up to me.  But why does she have a weak suck?  She wasn’t born prematurely, she was 10 pounds for crying out loud. 

Suck training made the problem even clearer to me.  My daughter couldn’t hold a pacifier in her mouth for longer than 10 seconds on her own.  It kept popping out of her mouth, much like my breast would.  The tongue exercises would quickly exhaust her, and it was obvious that she had very little mobility with her tongue.  And besides being exhausted, she was angry.  She was starting to scream at my breast, and physically push me away.  She hated nursing, and I started to dread it.  I remember collapsing into my husband’s arms one day, sobbing she hates me.  I stopped trying to nurse at night, it was too much for both us – I just pumped and bottle fed.  During the day I’d bring her to the breast after her bottle, and tried to associate the feeling of being full and happy with the feeling of being snuggled up to me.   We were skin-to-skin constantly.  And when she wasn’t in the nursing position, she was the happiest baby you’ve ever met.

One thing kept me going at this point: surprise flowers with a note from my daughter.  It took me a week to figure out which friend had sent them to me.  This note held so much power for me, and I’m eternally grateful for this friendship.

Note

Another OT appointment came and went.  The LC at that appointment (a new one to me), was surprised that I had still managed to avoid formula.  You know, pumping may not be sustainable long term.  My pediatrician basically said the same thing to me that same week.  Lady, I’ve made it this far, and I’m tired of people telling me what I’m capable of doing.

My abundant supply did not come without its costs.  I frequently suffered from painful clogged ducts that would trap me inside the house all day while I tried to relieve them.  Once again, I learned all I could about how to work them out, and eventually got them under control with a few key tips (lecithin supplements, rice socks as compresses, pumping after hot showers, pumping at different angles, no bra around the house.)

Week 5: I finally got unchained from my pump for long enough to make it to the breastfeeding support group that they had told me about at lactation.  It was my lucky day; it was the last group that was being led by a veteran LC who was retiring.  There were also several other LCs in the room, but they were there as mothers to their own little ones.  I was so nervous to speak and share my story because I was afraid that I would start crying before I could spit it all out.  When I finally re-lived what the last 5 weeks had held, their words surrounded me like a warm hug.  What you’re doing is amazing.  You should be proud of yourself. We know you can do it.  I didn’t know it, but it’s what I had been waiting for.  For someone with authority to tell me I was doing the right thing.  Doing a good job.  To have confidence in me. None of my pediatricians, lactation consultants, or occupational therapists had said anything like that to me.  All of their doubt was erased in a single day by the words from this room of amazing women.  Why couldn’t one of you have been my lactation consultant? 

And then the answer came.  She might be tongue-tied.  They’re sometimes hard to diagnose if it’s not an anterior tie.  She might have a posterior tie.  It’s the kind of thing you can have evaluated by a Pediatric ENT, and they can clip the tie, releasing the restriction on her tongue, and allowing it to become more mobile.  They’re often accompanied by upper lip ties and high palates.  And if she’s still willing to latch, you also might want to consider using an SNS to try to avoid breast aversion. 

Yes.  Yes.  Yes.  That night I read all about tongue-tie.  I compared the symptoms with what I was experiencing.  Check.  I compared the pictures with what my daughter’s tongue and upper lip looked like.  Check.  I called and made an appointment with a Pediatric ENT.  We’d have to wait 2 weeks.  Damn.

While we waited for our ENT appointment, we went to lactation again.  My daughter was still willing to latch, but it was clear that she was developing a bottle preference and a breast aversion.  I asked about trying an SNS, but was met with skepticism.  They’re really finicky to use.  We typically only recommend them for people who need to build more supply, and you have plenty of milk.  And she’ll be taking bottles when you go back to work anyways, so let her get more practice with the bottle.  I left feeling defeated again, but hopeful for answers at the ENT.

But by the time our appointment rolled around in week 7, it was too late.  My daughter had developed a full-fledged breast aversion.  She screamed every time and pushed me away.  I’m glad that we went ahead with the revision of her posterior tongue tie and upper lip tie.  The procedure (in-office, local anesthetic, quick snip to the tight frenulum under her upper lip and her tongue) allowed her to bottle feed more easily.  She could finally flange out her upper lip and keep a tight seal.  She could finally keep her pacifier in.  She could drink from the bottle faster than she ever had before.  I knew in the future it would help prevent dental and speech problems.  Her tongue had been freed.  And I had the answer I had been looking for all along.

I’ll never know for sure if it could have saved our nursing relationship had it been diagnosed earlier.  But in my heart I know it would have.  A few days after the procedure, I marched into my final lactation appointment and demanded to use an SNS.  But my daughter wouldn’t latch on for long enough to give it a chance.  I walked out of there angry and resentful.  They should have seen it.  They should have supported keeping her at the breast.  They should have known their own limitations and referred me earlier. 

At 10 weeks I finally decided to stop torturing both of us, and stopped trying to nurse.  I decided to become an exclusive pumper, for the sake of my relationship with my daughter.  I’ll never forget the last time she nursed.  I tricked her – she was still asleep, and so I attempted nursing in a side-lying position on the bed with her.  I started with the shield so that she’d think it was a bottle, and then slipped the shield off.  She was sleepy enough to nurse peacefully for 10 minutes.  I’ll remember those 10 minutes forever. But then she woke up and pushed me away.  It was the last time I’d put her in a situation to push me away.

I eventually came to peace with my decision.  Not trying to nurse her anymore saved me hours each day, not to mention heartache.  Our bond grew quickly, in large part due to bedsharing (which is another journey for another post), and I actually got to enjoy the rest of my maternity leave.  At 12 weeks I finally felt confident enough in my supply to drop from 8 pumps a day to 7.  By the time I went back to work at 17 weeks, I was down to 4 pumps a day, without losing any output.    When she started on solid food at 6 months, I was down to 3 pumps per day, and still making enough to put 2 bottles per day in the freezer.  It almost felt unfair – somehow exclusively pumping had made it easier on me than on my friends who were nursing.  They had to nurse morning and night, and then pump 3 times during their work day, and were struggling to keep up.  I donated milk to two such mothers.  This time around I plan on donating any extra milk I make to a milk bank that serves NICUs.  But even though pumping became easier, I desperately wished I could have nursed.

Stopping pumping was more emotional than I thought it would be.  12 months rolled around and I wasn’t ready.  I even switched daycares because our original one wouldn’t allow breastmilk in the toddler room.  Like hell you’re going to tell me when I have to wean. I fought for this. My daughter could sign for milk, and asked for it while she watched me pump.  She knew where her milk came from, and that meant the world to me.  But I still hadn’t gotten my cycle back, and I wanted to get pregnant again.  I pumped for the last time on the day she turned 16 months old.  It’s been over a year since I pumped, but since I became pregnant, she has asked me for my milk 3 times.  It’s amazing that she remembers, and even more amazing that she can sense / smell that my milk is back now, preparing for her baby brother.

I know that I’m one of the lucky ones.  I was lucky that I didn’t suffer from postpartum depression. I was lucky to have a husband that supported me. I was lucky to be able to afford a good pump, extra pumping supplies, lactation support, and enough unpaid time off of work to be able to figure it out.  I was lucky to have a workplace that supported pumping.  I was lucky to have a work schedule that accommodated pumping.  But it’s sad to me that we have to fight so hard for something that should be supported more in our society.

I feel hopeful for my next breastfeeding journey.  I have confidence.  I have a plan.  I have a new pediatrician who understands breastfeeding.  I now know more great lactation consultants than I can count.  I’m armed with more breastfeeding knowledge than I know what to do with.  But I also know that I could encounter an entirely new set of issues.  Maybe my son will be the type of baby who refuses bottles.  Maybe I’ll get mastitis.  Maybe he’ll have reflux.  Maybe he’ll have a dairy allergy.  Who knows?  But now I have a village.  A village filled with a lot of seriously kick-ass mothers who will help me fight whatever I’m up against.

We all have our own journeys.  What worked for me may not work for you.  But if you’re a new mother reading this: This is a time-sensitive issue.  Find help quickly.  I hope you find your village in time.

*In addition to an in-person support group, I highly recommend finding a closed Facebook group you can join.  There are a ton out there, and there’s nothing more helpful than other moms who are also up at 3 am nursing their babes to help you with your questions.  The larger the village, the more likely you’ll be to find someone who has experienced your specific issue.