Got Milk

Breastfeeding. One of the most stressful aspects of having a baby. Produce too little and I feel like a failure. Produce too much and I feel obligated to pump and store it. Produce just enough and I worry about whether it is, in fact, enough.

Breastfeeding has been a long road for me. I struggled with low supply from the very beginning. Born a mere six pounds, Bub was constantly hungry and I couldn’t produce milk fast enough. I would nurse him and think he was full only to watch him chug five ounces of formula an hour later. I felt like I was starving my baby.

When I looked for advice, I was met with a barrage of opinions:

• “Pump every two hours religiously.”

• "Don’t bother pumping. Just nurse around-the-clock.”

• “Eat lactation cookies.”

• “Take fenugreek supplements.”

• “Eat animal protein.”

• “Drink lots of almond milk.”

• “Get eight hours of sleep.”

How one gets eight hours of sleep while pumping every two hours is beyond me. Needless to say, the advice out there can be confusing and conflicting.

The endless counsel was fueled by pressure from parenting books to breastfeed:

• “Breastfeed for a year and you’ll have a healthier, happier, smarter baby.”

• “Breastfeeding is the best thing for your baby.”

• “Every mother should be able to breastfeed.”

• “Your baby should drink only breastmilk for the first six months of life.”

And lastly, there was self-induced pressure unintentionally brought on by friends and family. Breastfeeding seemed so easy for everyone else. Producing milk for my baby quickly became an obsession. I set alarms to wake up and pump every two hours throughout the night. I would sometimes pump for an hour, hoping it would help the supply and demand. I would feel guilty and stressed when I didn’t pump on time. I felt like a letdown when my baby clearly needed more milk than I could make.

A few weeks after Bub was born, I discovered that I was a formula baby. My mother didn’t even bother breastfeeding because she went back to work three days after I was born. My aunt struggled to breastfeed her children. She tried for months and was never able to. Maybe low supply is genetic. My mother taunted me for not being able to produce enough milk and yet, she didn’t even bother to try with me. The audacity. The hypocrisy. The cycle of shame needs to end.

Six months into breastfeeding and I started to have symptoms of postpartum depression. They were triggered by my period and showed up as uncontrollable rage. Right before my period, I would experience the most intense mood swings and get angry over the smallest things. The rage felt like an out-of-body experience.

In the back of my mind, I knew stopping breastfeeding would likely stabilize my hormones and my mood swings. And yet, I was determined to provide whatever milk I could for my baby. Even if it meant only 3 ounces a day. I kept trying to nurse, trying to pump.

Then one Sunday in February, my supply dropped significantly. Down to droplets. My period came. No mood swings. Physically, I was feeling more like myself. Emotionally, I was mournful over not being able to produce anymore milk. My goal was to do it until his first birthday.

And so at the end of February, my breastfeeding journey comes to an end. Almost 11 months of obsessing over milk supply, taking breaks throughout the day to pump, washing fiddly pump parts. Suddenly, I don’t have to think about it anymore. I can eat and drink whatever I want. I have time back in my day. I can let Steve feed Bub with formula. My hair can finally have a chance to grow back. I’m. Free. But why does freedom feel so bittersweet?

Because I’ll miss feedings with my baby, that special bonding time. I’ll miss watching YouTube videos during my pumping sessions, the only break I had throughout the day. I’ll miss having an excuse to consume extra calories. Breastfeeding was my connection to those early days - as painful as they were - when we first brought him home and I was figuring out this whole ‘feeding my baby with my breasts’ thing.

What I’ll take away from this experience is just how incredible the female body is. The fact that I would feel a letdown when I heard my newborn cry. The fact that there is a feedback loop between my baby and my breasts that tells my body how much milk my baby needs. When nursing or pumping, I could feel the nutrients being drained from my upper body. Mothers literally give their all to their babies.

I am so proud of my body for taking care of my baby.

My breastfeeding journey in numbers

• Months I breastfed/pumped: 10.75

• Hours breastfeeding/pumping: 900+

• Number of hours spent washing pump parts: 300+

• Times Steve or I spilled a bottle of breastmilk: 4

• Times I’ve cried over spilled milk: 4

• How many ounces I pumped the first time: 2

• How many ounces I pumped the last time: .25

Motherhood: The First Month

The Birth

Bub’s birth was, dare I say it, a fun experience for me. Of course, there were tears (and tears), lots of physical discomfort (thank you, contractions and a horrendous IV), and lots of worries (#covid19). But, the positive moments I had far outweigh all of the pain.

A couple days before Bub was born, I went in for a scheduled ultrasound and doctor’s appointment. Throughout my pregnancy, he had been measuring on the smaller side but I was told not to worry. Except this time. This time, I was told Bub’s stomach was measuring a few weeks behind the rest of his body. Because he was growing asymmetrically, our doctor recommended that we induce labor that evening and get the baby out as soon as possible. I went from thinking I still had two weeks to prep before the baby was due to...this baby might come today. 

Despite feeling nervous, Steve and I spent the rest of the day trying to prepare as much as we could: packing a hospital bag, dropping the dog off, figuring out how to set up the car seat. We were supposed to be at the hospital at 9:30 pm. As the sun set, I tried not to obsess about the fact that our lives were about to change forever and that the next time we were home, we’d have a BABY with us.

As we walked into the hospital, I laughed at all the stuff Steve carried: a pillow, a comforter, a bag full of snacks, a duffel bag, and the breast pump backpack. We looked like we were going to sleepaway camp.

No joke, the hardest part of Bub’s birth for me was getting an IV. Had I not been lying in my hospital bed already, I definitely would have fainted. Throughout the night, our nurse would check in to see how my contractions were coming along and each time, it was my IV that I’d complain about. To help take my mind off of it, she ended up wrapping it with hot pink medical tape that’s typically given to little kids. Babying my IV became the running joke during my hospital stay, and I am in no way embarrassed about it.

My original birth plan was to give birth naturally with no medication. I laugh about that now because I was given Cervidil immediately after my IV was put in. After 12 hours of being on Cervidil, I was administered Pitocin. Ten hours later, I got an epidural. My doctor manually “broke my water” and a few hours later, I went into active labor. So much for having a birth plan. I honestly assumed that because my mom had relatively quick and easy deliveries when it came to my sister and me, I would experience the same. Not the case.

Once I was in labor, Steve and our nurses were the ultimate team. When I felt a contraction coming, Steve took my left leg while two nurses grabbed my right leg. DEEP BREATH. PUSH, PUSH, PUSH. QUICK INHALE. PUSH, PUSH, PUSH. QUICK INHALE. PUSH, PUSH, PUSH. They cheered and yelled words of encouragement. I felt like Lebron James at the free throw line. I was in labor for two hours but it felt like 10 minutes. I was so glad I got the epidural - it allowed me to enjoy every moment of my delivery experience. Without it, I would have only focused on how much physical pain I was in.

#TMI I was told that the biggest challenge with a vaginal birth was pushing out the baby’s head and shoulders. After that, he would slip right out. And, he did. He literally slid right into the doctor’s hands. 

The hospital room immediately buzzed with activity. I looked around me and was in awe. Aside from Steve, the room was filled with women. Our doctor was stitching me up. One nurse was weighing Bub (6 pounds, 2 ounces). Another was removing my epidural. Two nurses were helping with cleanup. It was one of the few times in my life that I recall witnessing smart, compassionate women expertly doing what they do best, confident in their knowledge and skills, and working in beautiful synchrony. I felt inspired and am so proud our baby was welcomed into the world by a team of strong women.

With a healthy Bub in my arms, I suddenly realized that I now needed to keep him alive. And, I had no idea where to start. Thank goodness for the nurses we had. During the next 24 hours at the hospital, our nurses would teach me how to properly hold him, nurse him, change him, and bathe him. This was my first hospital stay ever and throughout it, I experienced firsthand what a godsend nurses are. Can we start calling them angels sent from heaven?

When it was time to leave the hospital, I was reluctant. I didn’t want to say goodbye to our round-the-clock care and amazing nurses. The 400 square feet hospital room was my home for the past three days and the only world Bub knew outside the womb. For three days, I was sealed off from the outside world with only one mission: to give birth to a healthy baby. Nothing else and no one else mattered. It was freeing to be able to ignore every other responsibility in my life. Now with mission accomplished, it was time to face the outside world and I did not feel ready. I wanted more time in my hospital room bubble.

The First Month

No book, YouTube video, or class could have prepared me for motherhood. There is no manual for my specific baby, no teacher I can turn to with all the answers. I often feel like I am in over my head, and I’m up at all hours of the night thinking to myself:

How do I pull a onesie over his head? What’s the best way to bottle feed him? Why is he still crying even though I’ve changed, fed, and burped him? Why does he hate sleeping in his bassinet? Why does he fart so much? Does he have colic? Why isn’t my breast milk coming in as much as I thought it would?

So many questions. So much googling. And those are just some of the questions I had about taking care of a newborn. I’m also trying to figure out the new postpartum me. My body, my hormones, my sleep schedule. They’re all changing and at times, I feel really overwhelmed. I cry at the drop of a hat. I fall asleep on command. I sweat the small stuff. I get triggered easily. I can’t remember the last time I had a good laugh. I feel isolated. Top that off with a screaming baby, showerless days, and sore boobs. Postpartum life is all of the things.

Being maternal is pretty foreign to me. I wouldn’t say I have a strong “maternal instinct”. Fortunately, my other half has parenthood down to an art form. Steve has taught me how to put clothes on Bub, how to bottle feed and burp him properly. Steve is the one who knew to monitor for jaundice right after Bub was born. Steve never loses his cool, even when it’s 3 am and Bub has pooped and peed all over himself. I wish I had Steve’s confidence and parental instinct. But, I’m grateful I have a partner who has the patience to teach me how to take care of our baby and who does his best to cheer me up when I feel like a failure of a mother.

And, I often feel like a failure. When Bub is wailing at the top of his lungs in the middle of the night, I get flustered. I just want him to stop crying as fast as possible. Easier said than done when he’s spit up and peed all over the changing table and all the swaddles are in the laundry I haven’t had a chance to wash. I’m constantly worried I’m not doing something the right way. I’m scared I’m not holding his soft head correctly. I’m terrified I’m going to break him somehow.

For the first month, our lives have been broken into two-hour increments. Warm up his bottle, feed him, burp him, change his diaper, try to get him to sleep. Then, eat and hydrate ourselves, pump (for me), take the dog out (for him), clean dirty bottles and pump parts, maybe do laundry. Repeat.

Our new routine has been hard to get used to. Every day, I feel some form of frustration, exhaustion, and anxiety. Every night, I feel a sense of dread knowing Bub will likely fuss every 90 minutes. The truth is, there are moments when I think to myself, “Can I give the baby back? I’m not cut out for this.” There are moments when I miss my life before the baby.

And yet, I love my baby more than anything. I want to remember everything, every little thing he does: the way he cracks a smile after chugging a bottle of milk, the way he coos in his sleep, the way his tiny fingers wrap around my index one, the way he looks around him with such curiosity and sometimes a furrowed brow. I’m both eager for him to be able to hold his head up on his own and asking time to stand still so I can keep him this size in my arms forever. As his mama, I’m learning that there are tears of joy and sadness when he reaches each milestone.

One month in and I’m still getting used to calling myself “Mom” and thinking of myself in terms of “Parent”. Sometimes my mind still thinks I’m pregnant. Sometimes I wake up, don’t know what day it is, and forget for a hot second that I have a baby. Sometimes I make plans in my head only to remind myself that I can’t because of how unpredictable he is.

But every day, I learn something new. About him. About myself. I’m learning to embrace all the feels, all the cries, all the smiles. I’m learning to let some things go, like cleaning floors and tidying up the house. I’m learning to ask for help, even if it’s just a glass of water. But most of all, I’m learning to slow down and be more present. I’m not a perfect mom, nor will I ever be, but if I can show my baby love and give him the time and attention he deserves, maybe I can do this mom thing.