I'm already aware, thanks.

A week or two ago, I saw an article that was basically a round-up of celebrity breastfeeding pictures.
"It's so natural!"
"You shouldn't be ashamed!"
"It's a part of who I am now!"
"Look how beautiful breastfeeding is!"

Okay, those aren't direct quotes from the article or the celebs, but if I recall correctly (and I probably don't) that's the basic gist of what some of these lovely, famous, boob-bearing ladies wanted us to know: that breastfeeding is the thing to do.

Then, a few days later, I saw a news segment on the local TV station about a woman who put together a flash mob to raise awareness of breastfeeding. I'm not sure what it is about a flash mobs that is supposed to make me think, "You know, the fact that they're suddenly and unexpectedly dancing in public makes me realize: breastfeeding is better than formula," but kudos to them for trying.

If I may be serious for a moment (and I may, it's my blog): both of those "news" items punched me in the gut and left behind a big ol' pile of hot, steaming, stomach-churning guilt. And the inability to string together a cohesive metaphor.

Because my pretty girl only gets formula.

When I was pregnant, the plan was to breastfeed and then pump when I returned to work. After all, you know, "breast is best". That slogan isn't about chicken, 'cause if it were then we'd say "thigh is best," thankyouverymuch.

I saw written somewhere that if you can't/won't/don't breastfeed, "formula isn't poison." 

I thought, "Hey, if breastfeeding doesn't work out, formula isn't poison... but I'm going to breastfeed."

After using my considerable strength to survive contractions and then to squeeze the proverbial watermelon out the proverbial hole the size of a lemon, my new baby girl and I had a magical moment of bonding where she latched on for the all important colostrum (the precursor to the milk that is thicker and very nutrient-dense).

Score! I'd already nailed the breastfeeding thing and they weren't even done stitching me up! [Insert Rocky music.] I kicked ass. I couldn't feel my ass at the moment, but I definitely kicked ass.

Oh, but then. Then we tried again to latch. And again. And again. Various nurses inflicted physical pain upon my delicate bits while slamming my poor child's cone head against my bosom (yes, I just said bosom). She'd latch on at last, but it would hurt so badly. Before we even left the hospital 2 days later I already had blisters on my ta-tas. Yeah, I didn't know you could get nipple blisters, either. Fun!

The lactation consultants at the hospital were concerned about her intake due to my gestational diabetes aka Tha Beetus (something about her blood sugar levels after birth) and to top it off, self-conscious and flat-as-a-griddle 25-year-old me got a boob job (yes, they're mine: I paid for them) and they were concerned about how that might affect my milk ducts (not to be confused with milk ducks, which do not exist--I googled it to confirm). So they suggested we start supplementing with formula. In our sleep-deprived delirium and nervousness, we agreed. We figured it was better than worrying about a starving baby.

Our routine was every 3 hours: Breastfeed, Patrick then bottle feeds formula, and I pump. Breastfeed, bottle feed formula mixed with pumped milk, then pump again. Repeat ad infinitum.

I won't get into the reasons that breastmilk is better than formula or describe the whole bonding thing that happens between mother and child as they spend blissful moments of quiet together while breastfeeding. The first, because you already know about it. The second, because I have no idea what that's like.

The short version is, it never stopped hurting. I won't get graphic, but there were some significant ouchies happening to my boobies. Not just, "Oh, it stings," but more along the lines of, "Hey, look at this!" and looks of horror and intense sympathy being the reaction. It wasn't pretty. And to top it off, my baby was losing weight.

At her 1 week check up, the doctor was happy with her weight and said we could stop the formula supplement and just do straight breastmilk. I was thrilled. Then I learned that at 2 weeks old she weighed less than she had upon leaving the hospital. I found this out at a breastfeeding support group.

I showed up to this free group (my first time driving with the baby by myself--nerve-wracking enough!) and I was supposed to weigh her before I began feeding, and then weigh again afterwards. By doing so, I would know how many ounces of breastmilk she ate during the feeding. ("Feeding" makes it sound like I'm throwing hay out the back of a wagon for some cows or something. Moo, baby.)

I put her on the scale and she weighed only 7 pounds 2 ounces, fully dressed. She was 7.5 when she left the hospital nearly 2 weeks prior. Cue feelings of absolute failure. I'd been breastfeeding exclusively for one week and I'd already failed at it.

While I was sitting there jealously and miserably watching other women sit happily with their boobs on full display and their perfect breastfeeding babies, the music therapist came in.

Dear music therapist,

You seem like a really nice girl. I like your long hippie skirt and cool net thingy you're wearing on your hair like a little crocheted hat. You're good at strumming your guitar. I hope you enjoy your work and that babies everywhere love your songs. However, I'm in the throes of what is probably some mild post-natal depression, serious booby pain, and intense feelings of anxiety and failure. So, with all due respect, I do NOT WANT TO SING ABOUT SIGN LANGUAGE OR PLAY WITH COLORFUL SCARVES OR TAP A TAMBOURINE OR BLOW BUBBLES AND SING ABOUT BUBBLES. I WANT TO SIT HERE AND BE MISERABLE AND I WANT YOU TO GO AWAY WITH YOUR TOO-CHEERY SONGS.

Sincerely,

A batty new mother

After an hour of getting her latched (the baby, not the music therapist), her falling asleep, waking back up, trying to latch again, eating for a few minutes, falling back asleep, etc., her weight didn't go up one tiny little iota. Not half an ounce. The lactation consultant said her latch looked good, that she could see my child taking good pulls, etc. After that second weigh-in though, the seasoned and very knowledgeable lactation consultant said, and I do quote, "I don't know what's going on."

Do I get some kind of specialty door prize for dumbfounding the lactation consultant? Or do you only get some kind of (wait for it...) booby prize?

Tee-hee.

Anyway, she advised me to quit breastfeeding on one side (lefty was the significantly more damaged knocker) for a while to give it a chance to heal, but to pump.

Oh, pumping, I flippin' hate you. Did I mention that I was never able to pump more than 3 ounces in a single sitting? And that was after double-pumping (both sides at once) for 45 minutes when I hadn't pumped all night? Did I also mention that pumping ALSO ripped my poor little boobies up? Probably because I had to do it for 45 minutes to get somewhere from 1.5-3 ounces. Real baby, electric baby--they were both rough on me.

Sutton had a doctor appointment the following day, after my breastfeeding support experience, and he said for 2 days, just 48 hours, to give her nothing but formula. That way he can know exactly how much food she's taking in and rule out anything serious as being responsible for her weight loss. After 2 days, her weight went up beautifully.

Which confirmed that it was me. It was my fault that my baby lost weight.

Did I not pump enough to help stimulate production? Was it my surgery that had messed up with my milk ducts (again, not milk ducks)? Is it the baby's latch; should I have tried something different? Am I not eating enough? (Probably not.) Sleeping enough? (DEFINITELY NOT.) Should I drink some Mother's Milk tea? Take supplements? What am I doing wrong?

While I was wrapped up in intense guilt and anxiety over, ya know, starving my child, there was also the whole feeding merry-go-round we were fighting with. Latch baby, try to breastfeed for 15 to 30 minutes. Then give a bottle. Then pump. And just about the time I finished pumping, it was nearly time to start over. I wasn't sleeping. I was barely eating. I was a hot, hot mess.

Like, Ghost Pepper hot.

From then on, after the doctor's appointment, I decided that I would quit trying to breastfeed. I would just pump and bottle feed.

"Oh, but Rebecca, what about the bonding that takes place during the physical act of breastfeeding?"
Yes, I know. But there's also the physical act of crying out in pain and coming to tears every time my child latched on my scabbed, cracked, raw boob that kind of interfered with the loving bonding.  And, see above: "merry-go-round," "not sleeping," "barely eating." I HAD to cut something for the sake of my sanity.

The doctor said if I could give her some breastmilk, even just an ounce a day, until she was 3 months old, that would be better than no breastmilk. I was determined to give the kid some breastmilk, and pumping was slightly less stressful, so that won the day.

For 3 months, I pumped as much as I could and gave her some breastmilk with every bottle of formula. The day Sutton turned 3 months old, less than a week before I returned to work, I quit pumping and went to giving her just formula. I felt relieved and guilty at once. Relieved to be free of my electric baby that took up so much of my time for so little results (and wreaked such havoc on my poor boobs), though guilty that I'd "given up."

Just when I thought I'd come to accept that my child was going to be okay, that I'm not the worst mother ever because she gets formula, I see celebrities' kids hanging off their boobies and flash mobs on the local news.

And the guilt comes back in and sits in the pit of my stomach like a lead ball. "It's just so natural, and it's SO MUCH BETTER FOR YOUR BABY and you're basically a horrible person for considering giving your child such an inferior product!"

I feel like an inferior mother, an inferior woman, for not having gotten it right, and even worse when I wonder if my choice to have surgery is the reason it didn't go well.

As my husband had to sweetly remind me, my relationship with my baby is about much more than what I feed her. And thank heavens for that. I managed to give birth without pain medicine, not even a Tylenol. She learned to sleep all night fairly early--at least before I lost my ever-living mind. I'm obsessed with whether she's too hot or too cold. Picking her up from daycare is one of my favorite things to do. I kiss her pretty much constantly. She's happy, loved, chubby, and cute.

With my thanks to the breastfeeding supporters out there, I'd like you to assure you, I'm AWARE of breastfeeding. I know that liquid stuff coming out of my chest was food for my baby. I, therefore, humbly request you stop making breastfeeding the holy grail of parenthood. Use your flashmob to bring awareness to something else that matters, like why denim on denim should always be a fashion no-no.

Ripped nips and organic, poison-free formula to you and yours,
xo

P.S. I would be remiss if I didn't mention that Patrick was so wonderful during all that. The best Daddy, and the best husband, enduring those middle-of-the-night feedings right there with me. He didn't help me, we worked together. And I love him more than cupcakes.


*Disclaimer: I know that in the grand scheme of things, this is small potatoes. Some women would love to have a baby to whom to give formula but can't conceive, or have lost a child, or have one in the hospital. Some women can barely afford formula. I'm just sharing my experience with one aspect of parenthood: the intense pressure I felt to feed my child "the right way."