by Alexis Novak
Once, I was a Breastfeeding Super Hero. Envision me this way: Boppy pillow in my lap cradling my ballistic infant, then nursing in the glow of a Housewives rerun while a laundry pile graffittied with refluxing baby stains reproduced in the corner. My couch had a permanent butt crater that welcomed me to my new post and full time job as Milk-Maid. Moooo.
Nothing about this new position came easily to me. I survived latching problems, dairy and soy allergies, mastitis, two long nursing strikes, and serious, level 12 pain every time I nursed. The pain rendered me speechless. I tried to breathe into it and over it like a searing labor contraction for the first two minutes of every session. Surrendering to the pain didn’t help ease the grinding glass sensation. In the dead of night, white hot electric zaps deep in my chest wall jolted me awake. This happened with both my sweet, screaming babes born 21 months apart.
My doctor blamed a nasty thrush infection but said he had never seen one so defiant. The Lactation Ladies at my hospital always said my name with a “oh, that poor girl” tone when I made my S.O.S. calls. Yet my overachieving nature would not let me stop. I viewed breastfeeding as my first test of new motherhood and I was not going to fail; I was going to be a Good Mom. And in the end, it wasn’t worth all that I went through. Not even close.
Today, “breast is best” is the mantra of the breeding masses, and the rest of the moms that fall into the Other category feel shamed into mixing their powder and water under the table, away from judging glances. New moms are first pressured in the post-partum units when nurses grab their boob and shove it near their newborn’s mouth. In breastfeeding support groups, moms are taught of the miraculous health benefits (i.e., “Look Mom, less ear infections!”) but what of the downside? You can’t leave your baby for more than 3 hours. You are the only one that gets up at 12 and 2 to nurse your child. The division of labor with your partner is unbalanced and will be until you wean, and you aren’t supposed to wean until at least your baby’s first birthday, according to the American Academy of Pediatrics.
It is easy to understand then that the perfect storm of new mom guilt, confusion and concern causes moms to obsess over breastfeeding and succumb to the pressure. Clearly, I wasn’t the first. Moms start to believe the hype that “liquid gold” will ensure perfect SAT scores and Viking-like immune systems, and that to not nurse is to love your child less. The problem is that killing myself to breastfeed was never going to give me what I ultimately wanted- the confidence that I was doing a decent job and not drowning in my mom self-doubt. Feeding our babies is obviously not the only way we bond with and nurture them.
While friends, aunts, my mom, my step-mom, and my neighbor told me to stop, it wasn’t until my doctor called me at home, twice, and said the exact same thing. He told me that I had done a good job and it was time to let it go. I cried, but agreed. I was finally able to give myself permission to stop after my 9-month long boob battle.
By the time I had Nursing Nightmare Number II: The Sequel, with my second daughter, I received the correct diagnosis- a circulatory disorder that physically disables me from nursing. At that point, I was over trying to be a Super Hero.
Because it’s genetic my daughters might be unable to nurse their own children one day but whatever choice they make in the breast vs. bottle debate I will stand behind them. And I smile thinking of the millions of other ways I will guide and support them throughout their own motherhood adventures, whatever they may bring.
New H&H contributor, Alexis, lives in St. Petersburg, FL with her husband and her two dairy-allergic, acid-refluxing, sassy daughters.
Written by Lea Barlow •
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