Of Bottles and Breastfeeding

Have you seen the posters they put up in hospitals and doctors' offices that promote breastfeeding? They show happy mothers cradling contented infants to their breasts, happily nursing in public, surrounded by laughing friends. Why don't we tell the truth to new mothers? Because if we did, no one would give it a shot, that's why.

I'm happy that I'm able to breastfeed my baby. There's so much to love about it: I know he's getting the best food for him, there are health benefits for both of us, and nothing beats the feeling of closeness. The way he gazes up into my eyes, like I'm the absolute centre of his world. This little guy lived inside me for nine months, give or take, and I miss him sometimes. When he's nursing, though, we're just as close as we've ever been. That's the good stuff, and I wouldn't have it any other way... But that's not the end of the story.

We got off to a rough start, my little man and I. He was in the NICU for 3 days (which is another story entirely). I visited him as often as I could to try and nurse, but I was up in the maternity ward trying to recover from a caesarian section, and often needed help getting to him. He wa a sleepy little fellow, nearly impossible to wake up for feedings, and the fact that he was being fed by IV didn't exactly motivate him to wake up and eat. I had to wake myself up every 3 hours to hook up to the torture machine (which the nurses referred to as "a breast pump"). During my stay in the hospital I developed a distinct appreciation for what dairy cows go through every day. But I digress... We were both frustrated and ended up crying more than a few times. It was only with the help of various nurses and lactation consultants that we made any progress at all.

The little guy did latch on before we left the hospital, and everything was going well, if you don't count the fact that my new nursing bra was lugging boulders instead of the soft, full breasts I had entered the hospital with. They were no longer boobies. They were knockers. We did really well for a few days. We slept like babies(meaning that we woke up every three hours for feedings), but I didn't even mind that. I loved having more cuddle time with my baby, plus I discovered the wonderful world of late-night TV. I think I might actually have been having an affair with Conan O'Brien; I spent more nights with him than I did with my husband.

Of course, one of the things they don't tell you is that it hurts. A lot. Every time he wanted to eat, I cringed, knowing what was coming. The books said that the pain would last for a few seconds; I was in pain as long as he was feeding. It got worse and worse, until I was crying at every feed. My husband suggested (God love him) that maybe I was building it up in my mind, and the expectation of pain was making it worse. Now, one advantage of our early troubles was that the little fellow had taken some supplemental feedings from a bottle in the hospital, so I could give him formula for a few days to give my poor, aching nipples a break. Out came the breast pump, necessary both to keep the milk supply up and to relieve the pressure. It turned out I was not able to, as Madonna sggested, express myself. The pump I had (and have) at home bears little resemblance to the milker at the hospital; it's a discreet manual model that leaves lovely flower-shaped imprints on my boobs. I sat down while Baby Boy was napping, and pumped... blood. No milk came out, but I got a nice, dark red clot... it was like a horror movie. I was raising a vampire baby. It did, however, explain why his poop was a rusty brown colour; the poor kid was drinking some kind of mamary coktail, blood and milk (shaken, not stirred). It also explained why it made me cry when the human leech was attached to me.

That was the worst of it for me, at least so far. I've heard the horror stories about mastitis, infections, and (God forbid!) sagging, but we're OK for now. Baby Boy will take a bottle of pumped milk, though he'll give you a dirty look when you first offer it. He hasn't had formula since that first month, and I thank God for that, because that stuff is horrendously expensive.

So what is the truth about breastfeeding? All I can tell you from my own experience is that, while it can be as beautiful as those posters would have us believe, it's hard. Really hard. As a wise woman once told me, "Breastfeeding is natural, in the sense that it's something our bodies were designed to do, but when you try it, you'll find that it feels like the most UN-natural thing in the world." It takes work and practice, and in the end, it might not be for everyone. I have nothing but sympathy for mommies who have switched to bottle-feeding - I know many of them had a harder time than I did. And I know that they share just as close a bond with, and have just as much live for their babies as I do.

And as for nursing in public? We haven't really figured that one out, yet. Thank God for stores with comfortable fitting rooms!