This week marks a milestone in the Showalter household. Julian has been in our lives for six whole months. (Yay!) But this also means I met my six-month-goal of pumping breast milk for him, thus giving myself permission to stop if Julian still wasn't nursing. That if always looming large in my head and heart. As long as I was still pumping, there was a chance that we might still succeed in breastfeeding. This week I had to accept the inevitable reality that this would not be part of the story of Julian and I.When I became pregnant breastfeeding wasn't even a question. OF COURSE I would breastfeed! Why wouldn't I give my baby the best, and save boatloads of money all while bonding with, and nurturing my baby in the process? I had heard it can be hard; harder than we're all led to believe. But I would overcome any pain or frustration presented to me, and I would succeed! It turns out, you simply cannot force a baby to latch who has no interest at all in the breast. It had almost nothing to do with me and my own determination and everything to do with my little guy's preferences.
I had an image in my mind of what breastfeeding would be like and I longed to know that relationship with a squishy little baby. After struggling with infertility for so many years, I relished the opportunity to share this special bond. I was prepared to nurse anywhere and everywhere and anytime he needed me, and for as long as he needed me. We were going to share snuggles and smiles and gentle caresses. Instead this is what my journey with breastfeeding looked like:
A pump and syringes and supplemental nursing systems and nipple shields. All of it, ultimately, unsuccessful.
Oh, but the success stories! I read so many stories of women who finally gained success in their sixth or seventh month of trying. I read stories of adoptive mothers who were able to begin lactating and nursed their babies! If they could do it, without the benefit of pregnancy hormones, surely I could figure out a way to make my baby see that nursing was so much better than that darn bottle. Why could this not be my story?
I know what I would say to another momma. I would say, "look at your beautiful, healthy, happy baby. He is thriving. You are doing the absolute best for him. Don't be so hard on yourself! You did everything you could do. He loves you regardless. Don't you dare think of yourself as a failure! Your little one is so lucky to have such an awesome mother who cares so much." I would try to love and encourage her into knowing what an amazing momma she is.
So why don't I feel this? Why is this not settling into my soul?
I can't shake the what-ifs. What if I hadn't allowed the hospital to give Julian formula? (But he was so tiny and he needed to eat, and my milk wasn't in yet.) What if I had put him to my breast every single feeding instead of allowing Brian to feed him during the night sometimes? (But Brian taking turns with me was such a blessed relief in those first sleepy days.) Did I do the mouth exercises with him often enough? Did I try nursing often enough or hard enough? What if I hadn't taken that two week reprieve in trying a few months in? (But we both ended up crying violently every time we tried nursing and the stress was not good for either of us.) What if I had held him differently or controlled my emotions better? What if? What if?
What if once I decided just to pump for Julian, I had pumped more often or taken more supplements so my supply wouldn't have dwindled to practically nothing? (But it became so difficult to pump once he became more active and alert, so often crying the entire time I pumped.)
What could I have done to prevent this failure? Because that's what this feels like - a failure. I have cried buckets of tear over what might have been. I cried as I packed away the pumping supplies this week, surrendering to reality. In the end, it is better for me to use my time being present with my little guy rather than fighting his frustration only to produce a few ounces of breastmilk a day for him. Even now I sit here fighting tears as my breasts leak, like some cruel final gasp at a dream that can't come true. It feels like a betrayal of my body.
I would be remiss if I didn't mention the incredible support I received from Brian, who held me while I cried and said all the right things, even as I remained inconsolable. I have had wonderful support and non-judgmental care from my lactation consultant and the wonderful group of other mothers that meet there. I know this is self-inflicted, all of it exacerbated by the worry that this might be my one and only shot at caring for a baby and wanting it to be perfect.
Through all of this I have learned to be careful about expectations and judgements - the ones we place on others and the ones we place on ourselves. I have now been around enough mothers that I have just thrown all judgements out the window. Your child wants to breastfeed until they're six? Great! Do it. It's more strange to feed your child milk from a cow than from their own mother. You don't want to breastfeed? You have your reasons and mothering is hard. Choose your battles. You want to co-sleep? How cozy! You want to put your baby in a crib across the house? Hooray for getting sleep and having time where your body is your own for a moment. Cloth diaper or disposable diaper? Baby led weaning or baby food purees from Gerber? We all decide what works best for our family and makes each member healthy and happy.
(Also, don't believe the hype about breastfeeding and pumping helping you lose weight. I put on 10 pounds in the months after giving birth because providing food for another human being makes you hungry! Turns out this is common, but nobody talks about it lest breastfeeding seem unappealing. Expectations, people.)
So, today I mourn. I might keep mourning tomorrow. Maybe I'll mourn this until Julian is 18. Who knows? But it is time to physically lay this down, wipe away my tears, and put this energy and emotion into the next thing.
What, you ask, is the next thing? Tomorrow I turn to something I know darn well that I can do: cooking! My body may not want to produce milk for my baby, but I can sure as split pea soup make this child nutritious and delicious food. He shall have all the food delights that any baby could ever dream of hating and rejecting. (Because, you know, kids are kind of jerks.) Here's to the next chapter. Bon apetit!
