I'm so glad the latest episode of Mad Men didn't entirely gloss over the childbirth process, as TV and movies from that actual era typically did. I'd only recently learned about "twilight sleep" from the documentary The Business of Being Born, so it was interesting to see it depicted. I mentioned this to my mom, how weird it must've been to be essentially put into a woozy dream state only to wake up with a baby in your arms, with no memory at all of the pushing or the pain. She joked that that scenario actually sounds kind of nice. Ha! Come to think of it, maybe so.
What I found most interesting about that episode, though, was when the nurse asks Betty if she'd be offering her breast to the baby, and she recoils in disgust and says no, as if the nurse had just asked her if she'd like to eat the placenta afterward. (Yes, I realize women do this nowadays, and hey, more power to you if you do, just not my thing.) And not that one would wish for a woman who smokes and drinks as much as that character does to breastfeed her baby on top of all the damage she did while pregnant, give the poor baby a break, right? But of course, no one back then realized that smoking and drinking might possibly have adverse effects on an unborn baby. I'm sorry, but I just find that so hard to believe. I mean, really? But, as Roth always diplomatically says, "It's all about the information they had at the time."
As I've been faced with the decision to wean (or not to wean) Rowan from breastfeeding in light of my weeklong trip to Germany next month, I've been thinking A LOT about my breastfeeding experience on the whole. I've enjoyed reading other ladies' accounts of why they did or didn't breastfeed, so I'm compelled to share my story, too.
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There really was no question about whether or not I would breastfeed Rowan. Both Roth and I were breastfed, and from what we'd heard and learned in prenatal classes, it was the best, healthiest decision we could make for our baby. It never occurred to me that I wouldn't be able to, but as I listened to our breastfeeding class instructor tell us there was no excuse for NOT doing it, that essentially every woman was physically capable of doing so, I couldn't help but raise my hand to ask the question, "But, what if I can't?"
I know women, some very close to me, who physically were not able to breastfeed their babies, despite their every effort to pump, work with lactation consultants, or take supply-boosting supplements or medications, who ultimately were utterly heartbroken when they couldn't produce enough milk and had to switch to formula. I don’t believe that because these women couldn’t and didn’t breastfeed their babies, it somehow makes them lesser mothers, or that their children were supremely deprived. But that was the sort of attitude conveyed in our breastfeeding class, and frankly, it pissed me off. Yes, breastfeeding is one of the defining characteristics that make us mammals, but a woman who isn’t able, or chooses not to for whatever reason, shouldn’t be made to feel inferior. There are enough pressures today with many mothers working outside the home that sometimes breastfeeding is not the best option, and I would never, ever fault a woman because it didn’t fit into her lifestyle. That’s the beauty of this day and age. We have choices, and ultimately, we choose what’s best for OUR family.
That all said, I know that I, personally, would’ve been extremely disappointed if breastfeeding hadn’t worked out for us. Besides the health benefits and the close bond it would naturally build between my son and me, we really, really did not want to have to pay for formula. Even today, nine months later, as we discuss the logistics of feeding our son while I’m in Germany, I’m not jazzed about buying formula. It’s even more expensive than diapers, if I understand the measurements right. But I think it’s inevitable given that there’s no way I could pump enough extra milk for the seven days I’m away.
Thankfully, the mechanics of breastfeeding were mostly a breeze for Rowan. Just as all of our prenatal classes predicted, he rooted his way to the breast mere minutes after he was born, which was an incredible, humbling sight to see. Instincts are truly an amazing thing to behold.
Pay no mind to how AWFUL I look in this picture. I'd just BIRTHED A BABY.
Of course, it took ME a little longer to figure the whole breastfeeding thing out. I don’t know if it was because Rowan was born during a rare Seattle snowstorm and the hospital was understaffed because nurses couldn’t get in to work, but I didn’t receive a whole lot of instruction on how to do it. In fact, I was left unchecked for many hours at a time, which was a little unnerving. I do vividly remember one nurse who barged into my recovery room while I was by myself with the baby and demanded that he be woken up so I could feed him that very second. I understood that I was to feed him every hour or so those first few days so my milk would come in and he wouldn’t lose too much weight, but I did not like this particular nurse’s bedside manner. She brought Rowan, now wide awake and screaming, to me and forcefully shoved my nipple into his mouth. I was so incredibly exhausted after very little sleep the night before that I did not appreciate being told what to do or how to do it, and I was grateful I never saw that nurse again. So, I kind of had to figure things out on my own, which was probably the best method for my, ahem, controlling personality.
Roth had taken a prenatal class called “Conscious Fathering,” and the biggest thing he took away from that class was that fathers can (and should!) do almost everything that mothers can do – except breastfeed the baby. (When will science figure this out? They already have the nipples!) But, while mom is breastfeeding, dad can help by bringing the baby to mom, putting a pillow under her feet, rubbing her neck, or getting her a glass of water. Still, to this day, when I nurse Rowan, Roth without fail will ask me, almost automatically, if he can bring me anything. That gesture, while small, was a HUGE help, especially in the beginning when I spent many, many hours on the couch, Boppy and baby on my lap.
For a short time, it hurt to nurse Rowan, and I remembered that our breastfeeding class instructor said if it hurt, it meant I was doing it wrong. (I’m now thinking that our breastfeeding class instructor was somewhat of a Boob Bully.) That was definitely discouraging, and I began to dread nursing him on the one side that was sorer than the other. I knew that eventually I’d toughen up, but sometimes it hurt so badly, I’d cringe and wince through the entire nursing session. Creams and ointments provided only temporary relief, but it was persistence and perseverance that helped heal my poor, aching nipples, and soon, breastfeeding was easy as pie.
But that didn’t mean it was an emotionally easy thing for me. Maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that my hormones were (probably still are, actually) completely out of whack after having a baby, but I felt (sometimes still do, if I’m being honest) extremely resentful that exclusively breastfeeding our baby meant that I was solely responsible for keeping him alive (in the beginning anyway, when all of his nutrition came from milk). Sure, Roth could bring me a thousand glasses of water, but it didn’t change the fact that I was the one sitting up in bed with the baby in the middle of the night. Roth could only do some much to quell the wrath of a fussy baby when nursing was the only thing that would calm him down. This was not only frustrating for me, who just wanted a break, but also for him, because he oftentimes felt helpless and even inadequate, that nothing he could do would soothe the baby like my boob could.
On the other hand, though, I’ve also garnered a sense a pride that when all else fails, I can nurse the baby to sleep, a practice that’s frowned upon by some parenting experts, and to which I say, hey, WHATEVER WORKS.
It’s only as of late that Rowan has started to show signs that maybe he’s more interested in playing with his toys and cruising along the edge of the couch than he is in nursing several times a day. I mentioned this before, but sometimes nursing him is like trying to nurse a baby crocodile that’s gone into a death roll. (He does this same maneuver when I change his diaper, which is why we no longer use the changing table and change him on the floor. Too dangerous.) He also thinks it’s funny to grab the soft flesh under my arm while nursing, and now that he has bottom teeth, I know it’s only a matter of time before he really chomps down on my nipple.
For the most part, though, breastfeeding has been a positive experience. It most certainly helped me lose all the weight (and then some) that I gained while pregnant. (Though, I’m sure all the extra eating will eventually catch up to me when I finish breastfeeding. Oy.) I love the ease of it, that I can I nurse Rowan wherever and whenever, as my milk is always just ready to go. I’ve been really successful in my endeavor to pump at work for the last four-plus months. And as promised, it has been helped build a beautiful bond between my son and me. As Roth says, “He really loves you.” Can’t put a price on that.
The plan was to breastfeed for one year. When the prospect of going to Germany for work came up a few weeks ago, I flat out said no. I didn’t want to cut this experience short. But then I got to talking about it, and maybe it was time to start the weaning process, and this trip would help facilitate that effort. We could gradually cut out feedings, and I could go to pumping once a day, supplementing with formula, and by the time I left, it’d be over. Rowan will have been breastfed for 10 months, which is pretty good, I’d say.
But, I don’t know if he’s ready. I don’t know if I’m ready. I’m feeling really conflicted. Some days I think it’d be nice to be done. It’d be nice to not smell vaguely like soured milk. It’d be nice to wear a regular bra. It’d be nice for my body to be mine again. I know I will miss nursing him when it’s done. He’s already growing so much faster than I imagined. Are we in too much of a hurry to end something he only gets to do once in a lifetime?
I’m now considering taking a pump with me to Germany so I can keep it up. Sure, he will have to be supplemented with formula during that week, and there’s a chance my being gone will lead him to wean himself on his own accord anyway, but I wonder if it’s worth a shot for just a couple more months? I’m curious what other moms would do in this situation.
I’m torn.
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On a related note, I wrote a guest post for Work It! Mom this week. You can read all about how to keep breastfeeding after returning to work on the Problem Solved blog. |
