That being said, I also find another topic to be at the forefront of my mind. It was the one I struggled with most with Sahana, and I keep second guessing how I am going to handle it this time around. Ash and I have had long discussions about it, and it single-handedly causes me the most amount of anxiety and stress about having this second baby. The topic? Breastfeeding. Probably the single hottest button you can push of mine after all I've been through. (And I would argue, what many women have been through, but for societal reasons keep to themselves.)
A quick recap in case you don't know my previous history. Ash and I were desperate for a blue diaper line when more than 30 hours had passed and Sahana had still not peed after birth. I inconsolably cried when they told me they'd have to supplement with formula, because she was not getting enough from me. (And truth be told, she didn't pee until we supplemented, so they were right.) I refused all pain medication after my cesarean for fear that it would make me drowsy or loopy, and I wouldn't be able to breastfeed properly. Lactation first told me her latch was fine, and then two days later came in and said I had to stop latching her for three days because I had to heal. (I won't go into detail, but it wasn't pretty. And very painful.) And how those following days were some of the worst days of my life, as not only did I feel like a completely incapable and terrible mother, but I could not even hold my newborn daughter because she would smell my milk and I couldn't feed her. To make matters worse, a revolving door of visitors would search my eyes for the elation that is supposed to come with a newborn, and I would feign complete happiness, then excuse myself to my bedroom where I would sob uncontrollably because someone else got to hold my baby when I couldn't. Each time I held her I felt like I was disappointing her because I couldn't provide her with the one thing she was seeking. I mean, what kind of terrible mother was I?
Now, if you know me, you probably know me to be a fairly self-confident person. I'm not easily influenced by societal or peer pressures, I'm very practical, and I am not used to failing. I put my heart and soul behind my endeavors, and usually I can make them successful. Hard work and perseverance (especially the latter) have gotten me far in life, and even when I "fail," I'm pretty good at pulling a life lesson out of the mix and calling it a learning experience. This was completely different. At the time society expected me to be the happiest, I was miserable. Feeling like a complete failure, not only to myself, but to my new daughter, smiling in front of people and crying behind closed doors. And to make matters worse, in my mind there was nothing else I could do about it.
I tried everything. And I mean everything. A dear friend arranged for her lactation consultant to come to my home on the Sunday of Thanksgiving weekend after hearing how desperate I was. She dropped off cookies that would help with milk supply. I drank fenugreek tea and mother's milk tea like it was going out of style. My sister sent me every breastfeeding support group she could find, every thing Amazon potentially sold that could help, all the while consoling me that this was not the end of the world. (She had just struggled with her own breastfeeding issues, and was finally coming out the other end.) I left teary voicemails for every support group, most of which responded and said due to the holiday season (I delivered right before Thanksgiving), there were no upcoming meetings. My Mom helped my not-at-all-recovered-from-a-cesarean body walk six city blocks in the rain, pushing my newborn in a stroller, to a yoga center meeting that finally did promise help. When I arrived, I found myself staring at a long flight of stairs, and after crying at the bottom of them, the lactation consultant came down and asked what my issues were. After hearing me out and telling me I definitely could not walk up the stairs with my fresh scar, she proceeded to hand me her business card, giving me no help whatsoever, told me to call her for a private consultation (for a hefty fee, of course) and turned and retreated up the stairs. There I was, soaking wet, looking at my daughter and feeling like a failure, my mother holding back tears after watching me suffer (I was her daughter, after all)-- I can't remember a moment in my life where I felt more defeated.
I am a facts and data kind of girl. I had read the research--breastfeeding is critical for a newborn, right? This is a natural process that every woman is born to partake in. I mean, I pretty much was condemning my daughter to a life without intelligence, no immunity from any disease, obesity, a lower IQ and doing irreparable harm to the closeness of our relationship if I didn't breastfeed. After all, even at my lowest of lows, when I couldn't feel worse about myself, the formula container I was using to supplement Sahana had "Breast is Best" stamped all over it. A constant reminder that I was providing my daughter with second-class food because I was not enough of a mother to provide her the best. People told me to relax and it would work. Eat more calories. Give it time. It's a natural thing--it'll come. After all, even people with no education in third world countries can make this work seamlessly, and here I am with my Columbia Master's degree, enough financial resources to get help and more determination than I've had for anything else in my life, and I was still a failure. A second class mother. Even the formula container was reminding me of that.
It's a funny topic, breastfeeding. At a time where women should rally around and help each other, people are so quick to judge. Some people assumed I wasn't trying hard enough, so inevitably I had convinced myself I wasn't. I had a popular breastfeeding store on the UWS refuse to help me because I had already supplemented Sahana at the hospital. Therefore, I had already gone to the "dark side" and couldn't possibly show the dedication that was required for a task such as breastfeeding. We would pay hefty amounts for lactation consultants to come to our home, and when they were there, Sahana "magically" would latch fine. They would leave, and we were back to square one. Women on social media would post pictures of how easy and beautiful the whole process was--I mean, anyone could do it! To top it all off, some even told me that because I had "opted" to have a c-section, I had essentially deemed breastfeeding unimportant. If I really cared about my baby, I should have had a natural birth without any drugs, as that is the safest way to deliver. (But that's for another blog post--if anyone thinks I "opted" to lie on a cold operating table by myself (until my husband was finally allowed in), have my stomach cut open, not be able to walk properly for weeks, worry about the wound not closing properly, and increase my risk of miscarriage for every sequential pregnancy, all while being made to feel I didn't "truly" give birth by society, they have another thing coming. And for the record, I had no trouble with my milk coming in due to the c-section. Nor was the surgery the reason behind her latching issues. Rumors begone.) Judgement was rampant, and I found solace in a few close friends and a very supportive family. You already second guess every single decision as a new mother--even the strong-willed and very confident start to waver. After all, now a helpless new life relies on you for its very survival--you really don't want to mess this up. And it is at this moment, when your confidence is shattered and you have never been more unsure of yourself, that society starts judging you and your child-rearing ways. Thinly veiled critiques posed as questions feel like daggers, and it takes all your energy to pull yourself together and sound confident in your decisions, when inside you vacilate between wanting to burst into tears and wanting to scream.
So what happened? Luckily, I had a very realistic (and pro-breastfeeding, I might add) pediatrician. We had to take Sahana in for weight checks constantly because of all the trouble we were having. When others would tell me to relax and things would work out, she was realistic. I clearly remember her words--"I know how much you want to do this. But let me tell you, it doesn't work for everyone. It just doesn't. No matter how hard you try. And it's just food. It's not love. Don't equate them to be the same thing." At three weeks she warned me that we might need to take Sahana back to the hospital if she didn't start gaining weight faster. Talk about a wake up call. All my reading and research had told me that this would eventually work, and was best for my daughter. The closeness, the bond, the obvious nutrition of the milk itself--how could I deny her that? But here she was--not gaining weight and withering away. Here I was--defeated and feeling like a failure, overwhelmed with what I had decided to get myself into. Here was my husband, sister and mother-- emotional and feeling helpless on how to help me, because I was so stubborn and determined I didn't want to give up, but I was clearly suffering. And here was the pediatrician--telling me like it was. Opening my eyes and giving me permission to let this all go.
That day things changed. I wish I could tell you I became fine with formula and fed my daughter guilt-free. I didn't. I turned into one of those crazy exclusive pumpers--I literally was attached to a hospital grade pump for almost 11 hours a day. Each pumping session was 40 minutes long to ensure I didn't lose my milk supply, and the majority of my day was spent pumping, washing bottles, sanitizing supplies or feeding Sahana. Eating and drinking were just fuel for more milk. I rested just enough to ensure my body wouldn't feel too much stress, as stress decreases your milk supply. I became obsessed with breast milk. If I couldn't latch her, I certainly wouldn't deny her the benefits of the milk itself. I cheered when I was able to take her off formula supplementation at 6 weeks because I was pumping enough. Every day felt like an exhausting uphill battle, but I was content because I was feeding her exclusively with breast milk. If she couldn't dine in, I could ensure she got the same food via take out. This was what was best for her-- I'm no fool--I'd read the research.
Then, one afternoon when she was almost six months old, she was sitting in her swing and reaching out for me to play with her. I was attached to the pump, and still had about 32 minutes left to go. So I made funny faces, sang her songs, all while wishing the minutes to go by faster so I could finish and pick her up. And then it hit me. Did she really care if I gave her formula or breastmilk? Or did she just want to play with her Mommy? How many times could I have been rolling around on her playmat, cuddling her, taking her places, instead of hearing the hee-hawing of my pump while she slept or watched me in her swing? What really made me a mother? What did she really care about? What would make her feel loved? My gut said she just wanted to play with her Mommy. And that day I decided to trust my maternal instinct, and I started weaning.
For the remaining six months, I used up whatever milk stash I had in the freezer, and started giving her formula. It was like a weight had been lifted off of me. For the first time since she'd been born, I didn't worry about running out of food. I stopped having to get up in the middle of the night to pump (long after Sahana was sleeping through the night), so I was well rested, and our family just became happier. She was happier. I felt I could truly enjoy her, and our family outings didn't revolve around my pumping schedule. I had prepared myself for needing to take her into the doctor constantly (after all, breastmilk gives immunity that formula cannot provide), but while her breastfed friends were trudging to the doctor with colds and coughs, she remained healthy as can be.
Looking back, I don't know if I'll do the whole exclusive pumping thing again. I understand the benefits of breastfeeding, but I also don't think too many people believe formula is superior to breast milk. In fact, I don't even know one person who thinks that. I've heard the comments where people try to claim they are open-minded, where in the same breath mention they've breastfed their children and think every mother should do what she wants, but then also mention how formula is fake processed crap and is far inferior to breast milk. Those comments just made me feel worse. I don't think any postpartum mother thinks breast milk is unhealthy, so you aren't enlightening anyone. Trust me, most of my friends who have used formula would have given up their right arm to have a full supply of breast milk for their child. I know formula isn't as good as breast milk. Formula usually enters the picture when, for whatever reason, you can't or choose not to breastfeed, or need supplementation. Formula is your only other option. That's it. To have society push breastfeeding down your throat feels unnecessary and unsupportive at a time where women really need to be lifted up, not dragged down. There are plenty of articles stating the liquid gold-like qualities of breast milk. Trust me, when you're desperate for help and googling at all hours of the night with a newborn who won't latch, that's pretty much all that shows up. I just wish there were a few that said, "But you know what, formula is okay too."
I still haven't quite decided what I'm going to do this time around, but I know I won't think twice about providing my son formula if he needs it. Guilt-free. And if I feel breastfeeding or pumping is hindering the amount of love and attention I can give either of my children, it will be quick to go. I won't allow myself to feel guilty for feeding my child, nor will I let anyone guilt me this time around--there is nothing wrong with formula. New mothers have enough to struggle through--let's support and applaud their ability to do what is best for their family, whatever it might be. My view of motherhood no longer revolves around milk, my milk supply, or how long I've been able to go without giving my child something "unnatural." It revolves around the amount of love, affection and respect I am able to bestow upon my children. The amount of tolerance and patience I can show them when the going gets tough. The fact that I am always thinking about the best interest of my family, and trying to make decisions accordingly. I'm a mother and a wife, and those all-consuming overwhelming feelings of love, where you can't help but worry because you are terrified of messing up or losing something that you just don't know how to live without, reminds me what those roles mean. And those feelings, those comforting and at the same time terrifying ones, are what make me a mother. If this baby comes out and latches fine, great. If not, we'll work through it. "It's just food. It's not love. Don't equate them to be the same thing." Food just nourishes the body--love nourishes the soul. It took the darkest and most painful part of my life to show me that, but as I said, I'm pretty good at taking a failure and turning it into a life lesson. So really, it's not a failure at all. And now I'm a better mother because of it.
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