I thought it was so funny how, during the time I was trying to navigate the sometimes scary world of breastfeeding for the first time, there was a media explosion on the topic. I am finding that virtually all aspects of motherhood inspire emotionally charged opinions in both mothers and non-mothers alike, and on an intensity scale of those topics, breastfeeding is very near the top.
I started to feel this when I took the breastfeeding class at the hospital, pre-C. It quickly became quite clear that 1.) The hospital strongly believes in and encourages breastfeeding and 2.) The staff was going to do everything possible to make sure that you breastfed, falling just short (if you were lucky) of making you feel bad if you didn't/couldn't. In conjunction with this was the now infamous TIME magazine cover, as well as Mayor Bloomberg's (who I have actually met- he once ate a piece of pastrami off of my friend's sandwich at Katz's Deli, but that's a story for another day) initiative to have new mothers lectured about the benefits of breastfeeding each time a bottle of formula was requested. All in all, this past spring/summer, boobies were getting a lot of attention.
I arrived at the hospital for delivery armed with the good intention to attempt breastfeeding but also with the underlying anxiety produced by the sudden attention to this act. As a new mom who intended to breastfeed, I was encouraged to do so as soon as possible after birth. I had read, in Chicken Soup for the New Mom's Soul, a story of whose validity I came to question, detailing a woman who gave birth in the back of her van on the way to the hospital. A line from the story read like this, "I pant, catch my breath, relax between contractions. One more contraction, one more big push... and it's done. A gasp. A cry. I wilt... Elias hands our new baby to me, nestles him in my arms, and covers us with the quilt. He latches on, hungry, content."
First of all, this story sounds like it was written by a woman who is married to a man named Elias. That's first of all. Second of all, this is a far cry from my experience. Third of all, I want to punch this woman in the face.
She makes it sound so matter-of-fact... "He latches on, la la la..." Let me tell you- latching on was not "la la la" for C and me. No. Latching on came with a whole slew of problems, including but not limited to one nurse after another looking at my boobs and either clicking their tongues, shaking their heads, or looking at each other saying, "Oh yeah, see that... that's gonna make it difficult." Suddenly, my boobs, which had never been anything remarkable one way or the other and never stood out to me as very different from other girls' boobs except for being mini-sized, were identified as "problem boobs." Nothing inspires confidence in a new mother like people discussing her body as though they were picking it out of a dysfunctional parts line up before even attempting to feed her baby for the first time. Then, these same people began man-handling my already sore breasts, forcing them into little C's mouth. When that didn't work, the lactation consultant came in and poured sugar water onto my boobs, in an effort to entice Baby C to latch on. Ultimately, I had to use a horrifying suction cup-devise that HURT (imagine voluntarily giving yourself a purple nurple. On both sides. 10 times a day. In front of your husband.) to draw myself out enough for C to latch on.
I lost all sense of modesty very quickly. Everyone saw my boobs. I had conversations with doctors while hooked up to the breast pump. Zandar and Cecelia quickly had to find out that we were going to sit and talk while I was completely exposed, like it or not. To their credit, they took it all in stride as though it were no big deal, but I wouldn't be surprised if they were haunted by visions at night. Weeks after I was home, I'd find myself standing in the middle of the living room, changing C's diaper, with both of my boobs just hanging out, like some kind of Amazon woman. I'd look down and think, "What have I become?" Again, though, I'm getting ahead of myself.
Things seemed to be going well by the second day in the hospital- I thought we had it down. That is, until the lactation consultant came to visit again. We were all set to go home when she came to check in because she had marked down on her clip board that C and I were apparently a problem breastfeeding couple. When she weighed C, it turned out that she had lost a little too much weight- I guess she wasn't getting as much as I thought she was. I was devastated. Nothing like feeling like you are starving your brand new baby. We were instructed on how to use a pump, told to buy one on the way home, and sent home with 20 bottles of formula just in case, along with strict orders to visit the pediatrician the next day.
Happily, when we saw the doctor the next day, C had gained 3 ounces and by her 8 day appointment had regained her birth weight. And now, certainly, no one could argue that she is not getting enough to eat. She is in the 95% of weight and height (doesn't she know women in our family are shrimps?) and she has the most bite-able thighs and cheeks. She and I figured it out, I'm convinced, despite of, not due to, the phone calls from the lactation consultant every 3 hours, the nurses refusing to give me a pacifier in the hospital, and the over-whelming pressure to breastfeed at any cost.
I wish I had been able to better listen to my mom. After I had given birth and the whole family went to watch Ivan and the nurse check out C in the nursery, my mom stayed behind to tell me not to stress about the whole breastfeeding thing. To try to relax about it. It was hard to do when I felt surrounded by a breastfeeding panic from the staff. But she was, as she always is, right. We figured it out. C was exclusively breastfed for 5 months. We never became very elegant at it- especially in public. She likes to move around a bunch and under my cape it looked as though there was an alien trying to escape from my abdomen. But she clearly was happy and healthy, so it didn't really bother me. She was, however, able to drink from a bottle and take a pacifier without being "confused" as the hospital staff threatened that she would be.
The whole breastfeeding culture is strange to me. When I go onto new mom forums online, the women have written under their screen names "Bronze Boobies" or "Platinum Boobies" to show how long they've breastfed. I guess bronze is 3 months, etc. I'm perplexed at the idea of awarding yourself a medal for this. I was also perplexed by the email I received from one of these websites urging me to go out and breastfeed in public on August 15 to raise awareness. Awareness of what? Do people really care if you're breastfeeding in public? In my experience the answer to the question is "no." And the people that do care are so few and far between and sick in the head that I can't justify creating a day to educate them. I, like I think most breastfeeding moms do, would prefer do be in private but sometimes it's just not possible. I'm proud to say that I breastfed- not in some crazy, cult-like, better than formula feeding moms sense, but in a sense that C and I made it through the first of many challenges that will face us in our lives together.
It's poignant and poetic that I'm writing this as C is weaning. We are down to nursing just one time a day, in the morning, and I am planning that Sunday will be the last time. It's bothering me a lot more than it's bothering her. She takes a bottle well (she got one of expressed milk every night from Ivan since day 3 so that I could go to bed earlier) and as long as she's getting food, she's a happy girl. I, on the other hand, am sad to be losing this bond with her. I know that many women on the mommy websites would judge me for stopping after 6 months. But just as I don't think we need a day for breastfeeding awareness, I don't think we need to create more reasons for women to judge each other. If our babies are happy and healthy, who are we to judge if a baby gets breast milk or formula and from what age? I'm weaning C for personal reasons and I feel comfortable with my choice, but I am sad nonetheless and I'm sure there will be some tears from mommy on Sunday morning. That is until those chunky cheeks make me laugh, as they do each day.
With the next baby, God willing, I will breastfeed on my own terms from the start. I will be able to send the nurses and consultants away when I'm feeling over-whelmed. I won't stand for my boobs being judged. They have served me well throughout my life- the Little Boobies That Could. I won't approach the entire process with fear (to the point of having nightmares- after all, there are plenty of other things to have nightmares about, like poop- another topic). And you'd better believe I'm bringing a pacifier to the hospital.
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