Whimpering Over Spilt Milk

Last Bottle of Liquid Gold

To all men who might happen upon this page, you might want to skip this post. It is about milk that comes out of boobs.

 

All of The Baby’s firsts- first time rolling over, first time standing up, first time crawling, first time taking steps, etc, have been the last firsts for me.  This is the last time one of our children will pull herself up for the first time, or say her first word, or take her first unassisted steps. Each milestone is wrought with a bittersweet choking back of sadness for the all too swift passage of time. Among the rapidly growing list of firsts, I never expected to add the first time she refused to breast feed so soon.  She has become the most curious and busy little being. She would rather starve than miss out on an opportunity to seek out danger in tight spaces around the house. There were hints that this day was arriving. She would nurse for a few minutes, whip her head away from me, and then fight her way out of my hold to follow the cat. But, she was still waking in the middle of the night to sneak in a session. I did not deprive her of it, as it was the only time that she was perfectly calm and cuddlesome.

When you are pregnant, no one ever tells you how troublesome and complicated breastfeeding can be. You read the Womanly Art of Breastfeeding and you are led to believe that this process is a natural, precious gift  and it will flow from you as freely as your love for your new child. The book also makes sure to let you know, in no uncertain terms, that if the milk doth not flow, it is your damn fault. I had nursed First Born Son through a case of double mastitis which lasted for 8 weeks. I finally gave up when the pain was too unbearable, the fevers were so high that I could not safely cradle him in my arms due to fainting spells; and, we had exhausted all antibiotics which were safe for breastfeeding. I was gun shy with H- and decided that, with a toddler at home, I did not want to suffer through an illness like that again. And with Princess Commando, my attempts were more concerted; but, she fell ill at 6 weeks old with meningitis, was hospitalized and I was told to temporarily halt nursing. I, too, became very ill and did not have the energy to pump in order to maintain my supply. With The Baby, I was determined to make nursing work. The hospital lactation consultants were kind and patient; but, my boobs were unruly and it took these veteran nurses several attempts to figure out what might aid our situation. We were sent home with an arsenal of nursing devices and the faith that it would all work out. But, it wasn’t working. At The Baby’s 3 day old appointment with the pediatrician she appeared to be gaining some weight; but, at 6 days old, she had lost some and she was not pooping. The pediatrician sent me to a lactation consultant who determined that the supply was there, The Baby’s ability to suck was there but something was disconnected. The solution was to pump and feed. So, I invested in an expensive electric pump and proceeded to provide for her that way. She was gaining weight nicely and she finally pooped; but, the process was torture. I’d pump, feed, pump, feed. I was exhausted and in pain. This was my last baby. I wanted to enjoy these moments with her. So, I quit at 6 weeks.  She was already colicky and I felt like I needed to focus my efforts on comforting her. I felt like a failure- a breastfeeding drop out. At 8 weeks old, during an extremely trying fit of colicky screaming, she began to root. We were alone in my bed, it was quiet in the house, so I offered the breast and she took it. It was magic.

I managed to exclusively breastfeed her for a total of 6 months (minus the 2 weeks I took a break) before we introduced solid food and occasional bottles of formula. I did not have a breastfeeding goal in mind- I just wanted to offer this as long as I could, in whatever amount was available. There were a lot of trials along the way. I nursed through the stomach flu and a 6 week battle with vertigo. I nursed through painful plugged ducts. I nursed and pumped (by hand) around the clock to compensate for another drop in supply which caused a plateau in The Baby’s weight gain. I waited patiently through her increasing distractibility- offering myself to her more times throughout the day to ensure she was getting enough.  I literally cried over spilled milk when I tripped over the dog on the way to the kitchen dropping an uncapped bottle of freshly squeezed boob juice (as the older kids called it) on the floor. My supply had been dwindling since we started to introduce solid foods and since she (gloriously) started sleeping through the night. I put even more effort into maintaining what was left by taking herbal supplements, eating oatmeal, pumping, etc. She would take what I offered in a bottle, but she no longer wanted to be pinned down to the breast. And, trying to manage and measure it all became an obsession which quickly wore me down. It just felt like it was time to close this chapter.

We made it to 9 months and one week. I pumped one last measly bottle the other night and put it in the fridge to save for a quiet moment. I discarded the parts of my manual pump last night (the electric pump was sold to a friend the first time I retired). I even made sure this pump touched Princess Commando’s old, stepped- in–dog- poop sneakers which were sitting at the top of the garbage pile so I wouldn’t be tempted to pull it out. I warned the Mr. that it was going to be emotional for me. He was sympathetic; but, of course, a man will never experience this. And, even the most empathetic husband and father will never quite appreciate the true purpose of the fun bags and all of the labor that went into sustaining his child. And, by no fault of his own, he will never fully understand how monumental and emotional the decision to cease nursing is for a mother.

I sat with her, early this Sunday morning, in her rocking chair before her morning nap. I gave her the warmed bottle of milk- the last bottle of liquid gold. She fell into the most peaceful milk coma. I lingered a little longer than I normally would, examining the pristine sweetness of her little face- the downy red hair, the long deep copper lashes, the rosy cheeks, button nose (where did that come from?) and cupid’s bow lips. And, I thanked her for being here and for giving me this experience.

Playdate Therapy

The Baby has been my most challenging child. She has been a test of endurance, strength, patience, creativity and faith. And, shamefully, I will admit, for at least the first 5 months, I struggled to resist the temptation to sell her off to the gypsies. I raised 3 babies before. Why was this one so hard? In spite of the fact that The Baby was a "surprise," I was confident going into this venture that she was going to be a piece of cake. Why wouldn't she be? Her siblings, as infants, were gifted sleepers and talented eaters with easy dispositions (when they got older, of course, that changed). This having been my last pregnancy (yes, the Mr. took care of that prior to her birth), I thought I would treasure every moment. The other three children were in school all day; and, I would have time to focus inward on connecting with the new little one- growing her, loving her. But, from the get go, the pregnancy was exhausting- despite the fact that I was in the best shape of my life prior to getting pregnant. I was nauseous; yet, I was agonizingly hungry all the time. At nine o'clock at night, I had such intense cravings for hamburgers, I could not sleep. I was in constant pain; and, I was woefully fatigued. My midwives were quick to point out that at 34 I was much older this time around. It was not comforting. The only silver lining, to a tarnished pregnancy, was the fact that for the first time in my history of being pregnant I had friends to go through this with. Five friends to be exact.

When I had First Born Son, I was 21 years old and the first among our friends (by 12 years) to have a baby. I had, by my own accord, isolated myself from everyone to immerse myself in the role of mother. At the time, becoming a mother was the most profound experience (it still is). Everything else paled in comparison. I looked at the Art History degree that I was working so diligently to complete as pointless. Art History, Fart History. Nothing could make me feel more complete than my days spent raising my son. It was too easy to push everything else aside and become drunk on baby love- to revel in my tiny creation. I didn't realize what little value I placed on my friendships. I made excuses not to see people-probably because I felt we weren't in the same place and I feared they would no longer understand me. I loved motherhood, but I didn't know that I was allowed to have more than one dimension. I can not be sure if I suffered for it at the time. The Mr. probably did though, as I tried to get him to wear the girlfriend hat, the one which allowed me to confide in him my deepest thoughts, unload my all my emotions, and gripe about him- to him. I secretly scoffed at the fluffy articles about the importance of friendship in the women's magazines that my mother handed down to me. "Real Women Have Girlfriends," "Girlfriends are Good for the Heart," "Without Girlfriends, You will Die Young."

I was excited at the prospect of bonding with my friends over their newborns. I was happy that I would be able to offer my years of expertise in all things baby related. But, with The Baby, I found myself in uncharted territory. None of my other children had colic. None of my other children had trouble gaining weight. None of my other children would scream bloody murder if I put them down in the coziness of their cradle to, God forbid, use the bathroom. The Baby was the universe's little wake up call to me- "You haven't learned everything yet, Oh Experienced Mother." I had wanted to breastfeed this child as I didn't fully commit to it with the others (that is a story for a different day). But somehow, at the start, we were incompatible. The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding (oh, how I loathe that book!) does not mention anywhere about how over 13 years and 4 pregnancies, your boobs can become stretched beyond Gumby proportions, making it difficult for the baby to get milk. So, I exclusively pumped. It was so taxing physically and emotionally. I only made it through 6 weeks before I could no longer handle the injuries I was sustaining. I tried formula, but she was so sensitive to it- it made her colic worse. We eventually figured it all out on our own and I was able to nurse her. But in the stupor of that dark time, I emailed my friend J, a new mother whose daughter is 6 weeks older than The Baby. I've known J since she was 5 years old. She is actually my sister's good friend. But, since my sister lives on the other side of the U.S., I get to reap the benefits of J's beautiful friendship.  I was so upset and felt like trash for giving up nursing (I blame the Womanly Art of Breastfeeding, for putting so much emphasis on breastfeeding as the sole means to being womanly and artful). I wish I had her response to post here; it was truly magnificent. Her words lifted me out of a gray cloud. She made me laugh. She validated my emotions. She offered me her friendship.

We now have playdates. When we first placed the girls side by side on the floor (at 2 months and almost 4 months) they reached for each other's hand and held on. A sign of knowing. A sign of friendship. Our daughters are very similar in temperament in that both are high needs and neither one of them wants to give us a break. Sleep has been such a struggle. I always know that if The Baby has been up all night, that I can talk to J and find out that her sweetheart was up all night too. And with the ever changing guidelines from the American Academy of Pediatrics (which our pediatricans follow as the Bible) on infant feeding, mealtimes have never been more complicated. But, we've been able to navigate through it together. I am learning from Js' trials and errors as much as I hope she is gaining something from mine. I feel that when I spend time with her, I can exhale. I am free to unload and she does not judge. I hope I do the same for her. It is like therapy. I walk away with a better understanding of myself, of my baby, of what changes might need to happen in order for us to grow. The Mr. always says that I am a much nicer (more "chipper" is how he puts it) person after our playdates. He suggests that we have one every day. And one of the biggest light bulb moments I've had, happened with J during our playdate this week. J was talking about how she does not feel the need to escape to have a drink with friends- that her sweetheart might be her one and only child forever and that this time goes by so fast that all she wants to do is savor it- even the difficult moments. I realized that The Baby's disposition is the universe's way of forcing me to appreciate this experience. A child who is high needs does slow down time. I had been lamenting all of these months that the days were dragging on, that I was suffering from not getting any sleep or exercise because my baby needed me all of the time. But in reality I was being given an opportunity to be in the moment. Her immediate needs were all that mattered. Her health and well-being was all that was important. And, now that I've stopped fighting it- The Baby has become truly delightful. And, miracle of miracles, she sleeps! But, without J's support and perspective, I might have still been floating adrift at sea. I will no longer scoff at articles in my mother's magazines touting the positive significance of friendship. It's true, "Girlfriends Give You Clarity."