I remember the first time my milk came in. It was 3:30 in the morning, about four days after Mare was born. I hated nursing. It hurt. All I wanted was to go to bed for a week to recover from what had happened to me. Instead, I was in a rocking chair, bare to the waist, holding a squirming infant against my chest, wincing as she repeatedly kicked my incision.
And then it happened. A rush. A slight burning. A trickling sensation down my arm. It was milk, spilling from me. On the other side, Mare snorted, burrowed, drank deeply. I switched sides, she drank again until she fell into a contented sleep with milk on her lip. She slept four hours after that, and I did, too.
I nursed her for fourteen months. I nursed Ren for eighteen.
I was a devoted breastfeeder, but I also learned a leeriness for the militantly pro-breastfeeders. I had seen too many women suffer at the hands of callous lactation consultants, had watched too many first months of life lost to pursuing something that made the mother miserable.
Yes, breast is best if you can stand it. If you can’t stand it, happy mother and child are best. Plenty of babies are never breastfed (yours truly included) and grow into perfectly lovely human beings.
But I address this post to prospective mothers, to the ones considering giving it a try:
My most recent baby, Eden started to lose weight in the hospital, just like all my babies did. My milk wasn’t even in — at 24 hours postpartum, it wasn’t supposed to be — and they started with the pressure to give formula. Initially it was polite. But by day two, Eden had lost too much weight by their chart, and the pressure was really on.
“One bottle won’t affect nursing,” they said. “She is losing too much weight, just give her a few extra calories.”
The maternity ward pediatrician made me feel bad about myself. Clearly, I didn’t have enough milk, she said. I pointed to pictures of Mare and Ren and explained that I had successfully nursed them both in to toddlerhood. What did she think had changed in three years?
She said it didn’t matter, that I needed to let go of my ego, do what was right for the baby and give her a bottle. It won’t affect nursing, she swore. I wanted to ask her how many babies she had personally breastfed.
In my experience, a bottle in the early weeks is the first brick on the path to giving up nursing. The bottle fills baby’s tummy, so baby sleeps longer than normal and wakes very hungry. Momma has slept too long, too, and has missed a breastfeeding, so her milk is declining. Hungry baby isn’t satisfied, and Momma caves and gives another bottle and another breastfeeding is missed. Supply goes down, baby sleeps longer. Nursing is never really established after that.
I made that mistake with Mare, caught it before my milk disappeared and spent a miserable two days listening to her scream while I insisted she try at the breast. I did not give her another bottle for many months.
I wasn’t going to give Eden one now. I assigned a family member to stay with the baby to make sure no one gave her a bottle. The nurses glared at me, at Emily, at Sunbeam, as our tiny baby was wheeled down the corridor gazing up at her Person in Trace.
The staff became so hostile that I checked out just 48 hours after a brutal 2-hour Caesarean delivery. I was afraid that if Eden got any skinnier they would refuse to release her to me. Without my consent, the maternity ward pediatrician called Dr. Button to tattle on me.
He made me promise to see him before she was a week old, and then he gave his consent to my release from the hospital.
When we got home, Eden developed jaundice. We went to urgent care every day for a week, where a new and different pediatrician lectured me each time.
Play it safe and give formula, she’s too skinny and that’s the bottom line, they said. How much was I nursing? How much I was pumping? -they never actually accused me of lying, but the aggresiveness and criticism made me dread the doctor’s appointments. I made the mistake of admitting to one that Eden slept in our bed — next to her sister — and got the Co-Sleeping Lecture, too.
If Eden had been my first, I would have stopped nursing her. I would have crawled into a tiny hole and stayed there.
Dr. Button changed everything. He agreed to exclusive breastfeeding if I agreed to be seen every single day. I did. Our days developed into a routine: nursing every two hours all night long. Get up and get the bigs dressed for school, take Eden to the doctor, get the kids from school, make dinner, play for a bit, back to bed, up for school and doctor.
Eden had been born weighing 8 pounds, 6 ounces. At six weeks old she was just a hair over 8 pounds. Dr. Button finally insisted that she be offered a bottle. But only, he said, after taking a full breastfeeding. She never took more than a half ounce or so, and didn’t gain more weight. We were allowed to stop offering a week later, and returned to exclusive breastfeeding.
It wasn’t the milk.
Children’s Hospital, blood work, tests, Dr. Google, nightmares, tiny baby in my arms shrinking instead of growing. I nursed her, I rubbed her back, I stayed calm and carried on.
At five months we had a confirmed diagnosis: Eden had picked up an infection somewhere in the first days of life. She was burning massive amounts of calories fighting it. The infection was so severe it had elevated her tiny liver function.
She had been closer to death than Cute Husband or I could stand to admit.
And then in month six there was a sudden change and Eden started to eat massive amounts of solid food while continuing a healthy nursing schedule. She got plump and rosy-cheeked. In four weeks’ time she gained back the missing weight. People stopped asking me if she had been a preemie. She was finally starting to be normal.
Here’s the part that’s about you –
Eden had an infection. A really bad one. It could have killed her. Breastmilk is packed with natural antibodies that boost the immune system. So the “conservative” approach the doctors were suggesting was to take away Eden’s last defense against the infection that was making her waste away.
If you are considering breastfeeding, read this as an argument in favor. Your milk can protect your infant in ways you can’t imagine. Do not let medical professionals convince you that your body is flawed. Do not give a bottle if you don’t absolutely have to.
Seek a doctor that truly supports breastfeeding and does not encourage mothers to supplement. Work now to find a lactation consultant who is empathic, supportive, and well-trained and who will help you navigate through conflicting medical advice.
Know that breastfeeding can be miserable work. For some people it’s easy and great, but for many of us it is a huge effort. But the payoff is beyond measure.
Life with Eden is much more normal now. When she tucks in for a feed, she looks up at me with big, bored chocolaty eyes. She takes my hand, smirks a little, feeds. Warms her belly against mine. She is fat and dimpled and has no idea that she was ever anything but what she is now.
I’ll never be the same. I have spent weeks and months praying over a sick infant, and my relationship with her is different in ways I don’t yet have words for. But my love for my body and what it can do is renewed.
It gave Eden life. Twice.
