Battle of the Boobs

My sweet post-delivery 'do, and sweet, sweet baby boy.

As a new mom coming off of a recent pregnancy, I know “emotional” and “hormonal” all too well. With baby number one in the womb, it was the diet dr. pepper my wonderful husband (we’ll call him Mountain Man) so lovingly went out and retrieved for me in lieu of the diet coke I was craving (because I changed my mind and forgot to notify him) that elicited my tears. Or my ever-shrinking closet (or my growing uterus, though I prefer to think of it as the former). Or the never-ending battle between my toothbrush and my gag reflex. Or more seriously, failing my glucose tests and having to deal with gestational diabetes (an entirely different post all together). Post-partum, it was my jeans that to this day will not fit over my new momma-hips, or the overwhelming sense of “now what?” The day we carried Frank into our home, we had several guests come to see him. I took an “I’m-overwhelmed!”-shower, and cried. However, the tears I shed over these things are just a drop in the bucket compared to the way attempting to breastfeed violently rocked my world. 

Breastfeeding has been the culprit in almost every breakdown I have had since becoming a mother. We’ll start from the very beginning. I always knew I would breastfeed my children. Okay, okay. Not always, but definitely from the day I began seriously thinking about procreating.  I read all of the literature, and frequented the La Leche League website obsessively. I skipped over the “Bottle Feeding” section of my pregnancy book. Once little Frank was born and they placed him on my chest, I was beyond exhausted from umpteen hours of labor and three of straight pushing. However, he latched on like a champ. My very first breastfeeding experience was wonderful. It was not painful. It was so easy and came naturally to both of us. Overnight, Frank was very sleepy. I struggled with holding him properly, achieving a good latch. Once I got him on, he would fall asleep, or eat for maybe two minutes before breaking the latch. “Oh, that’s normal. He will eat better tomorrow,” the nurses told me. Well, not really. We had off and on success. At one point, I remember wishing for an excuse to quit, but stuck it out. Just after lunchtime two days later, we were on our way home.

Mountain Man and Baby Frank moments after birth.

Frank spent the first several hours in his bassinet, snoozing away. I was worried and nervous because I couldn’t get him to wake up to eat, and of course, hormonal from the sudden lack of hormones pumping through my system. It took the entire first week (navigating around a crazy number of pediatrician appointments) to get my pillow-stacking technique down so that he was propped up just right. At our first appointment, our pediatrician was concerned about Frank’s weight. On day three? How would we know? After a few days, my milk had still not forcefully come in as I had expected it to, no engorgement to speak of. I reluctantly started to supplement formula at the doctor’s suggestion.

Supplementing was a struggle. I wanted my sweet baby to get everything he needed. I desperately wanted to be able to provide everything he needed from my body. After all, formula was the devil’s milk, wasn’t it? The guilt I felt giving him formula was immense. I hadn’t even given him a pacifier yet, and now I have to give him a bottle? Will he still latch after using an artificial nipple? Turns out, he did just fine. He would only take up to an ounce of formula after each feeding, and he was finally gaining weight the way the pediatrician thought he should have been. So I thought, “let’s build up momma’s milk supply!” I bought a breast pump. We holed up in the house and breastfed and pumped around the clock. Every two hours. Every hour. Cluster feeds. Breastfeeding all night. All day. Pumping after every feeding. This went on for almost two weeks. I slowly got rid of the formula. I felt so good knowing that I was exclusively breastfeeding. I had accomplished the thing I wanted most from being a mom! I was invincible. I was doing what was best for my baby. Frank started outgrowing his newborn clothes. He had the cutest, chunky, little thighs. And I was supermom.

This is the part of the story where reality hits me square between the eyes something fierce.

Things took a turn for the worse. Frank’s clothes got a little loose. His arms started to look thin. I scoured the internet for a sign that this was normal. I would show Mountain Man, “Look, this random forum mom’s baby’s arms look just like Frank’s. She is exclusively breastfeeding too. Look at this article about baby milestones.” He was having plenty of wet diapers. He had several dirty ones. He ate for a normal amount of time. His latch was fantastic. He burped. He spit up. His nails were growing like crazy. He was growing in length. But he was shrinking everywhere else.

I’m not sure if it was the messed up circumcision, or the letter saying she was moving away to California, but we chose to end our relationship with our first pick for Frank’s doctor. We ended up in a pediatrician’s office almost an hour away where I found out Frank was not just not gaining weight, he was losing weight. My mother-in-law, who had driven us to the appointment, and I were sent off to Children’s Medical Center in Dallas for the second time (the first time due to the circumcision issue). Let me add here that flu season was in full swing, and there was a line of families out the door and through the halls waiting for the ER. We were finally called back and they started running tests. Mountain Man made it to the hospital.

I retold our story to every nurse, resident, specialist, doctor etc… that came our way. They watched me nurse Frank. Maybe he wasn’t absorbing nutrients properly. Maybe he has a hyper-metabolism. Could be gastrointestinal. Maybe something else is going on. Some count of something is elevated and it shouldn’t be. We are admitting you.

It was almost midnight when we got to our room. I would like to take this opportunity to express my deep gratitude toward my mother-in-law for sticking it out with me. They had me pump straight away, and only bottle feed Frank for an “accurate” measure (even though no pump is as efficient as a baby) of how much milk he is getting. Then, they brought in bottles of formula that I fed to my baby and put him back in his enormous hospital crib to sleep. He’d had a hard day. I stayed up late to pump, and pumped a beautiful 2 ounces. The nurse told me that she would return with labels for my liquid gold, I mean milk, and she would take it to a refrigerator. Having been told this, I felt it safe to fall asleep. WRONG. When I woke up, I see my pumped milk sitting where I left it. No labels in sight. What a four-letter-word, son of a five-letter-word! The day-nurse explains to me that she has to throw it away as it had been sitting out for three hours. This was hospital policy. I cried. From then on out, I only pumped up to an ounce at a time. I’m sure stress, and anger, played a part in my low supply while we were there. It didn’t get any better.
 
We went through several formulas before finding one that didn’t come spewing back out of baby Frank. On the third day, they finally allowed me to breastfeed. He wouldn’t latch. We tried with every feeding. I would put him to my breast, and he would scream. My heart was broken, and broke a little bit more each time he didn’t latch. I cried again. I felt I had ultimately failed my baby. Did I try to do too much in those first few weeks? Maybe I should have let the laundry go. I should have breastfed more often, and then maybe my supply would be that of a normal person. I beat myself up.

The end-of-the-world feeling slowly started to loosen its reins. Baby Frank was gaining weight. He had just started smiling. He was looking healthier by the hour. Besides a diagnosis of acid reflux and a prescription for prevacid, nothing serious was wrong with him. My milk supply was simply too low. He was burning more calories than he was taking in. Frank is a mover, and breastfeeding itself burns calories.  Formula was no longer the enemy. However, I wasn’t giving up. Maybe I could pump enough for Frank to only have breast milk someday. I was hopeful. I stayed with Frank in the hospital for four days. Mountain Man had to work, but came to see us every night. He spent the night with us that Friday, and we finally received the okay to go home early Saturday. We almost spent Christmas in the hospital (phew!).

For a month, I pumped all day, and with every night-feeding. I left family holiday festivities to hide in a back bedroom and pump. My life revolved around pumping. The most I ever got was two ounces. My supply never increased. It decreased. Frank latched once, but never again. After battling for almost the first three months of his life, I surrendered. I had lost. I packed up my pump and hid it deep in the closet.

I look back at photographs and cannot believe how scrawny my poor baby looked. How I had not noticed sooner is beyond me. I was so embarrassed to have let this happen. Maybe I was blinded by my own overwhelming desire to successfully breastfeed. Maybe I stared at him too often to notice it before it had gone too far. I couldn’t understand how I could squirt Frank in the face and leak all over my clothes and not have enough milk to nourish him. Today, he is outgrowing his three month sized clothes and wearing size two diapers. He will be four months old in just a few weeks. He laughs, coos, and holds his head up. He is my little chunky monkey, and the happiest baby I have ever seen, with the cutest dimples.

I still find myself staring longingly and very enviously at mothers who are breastfeeding their babies when our little family ventures out. I still periodically leak through my clothes, which, let me tell you, is so irritating. There will always be that nagging, little part of my brain thinking maybe we didn’t try hard enough. But, the rational part of me (that’s still inside there somewhere..) knows that landing us in the hospital probably means we tried a little too hard. The guilt I felt from failing at breastfeeding, coupled with the guilt I felt from my baby not getting enough almost landed me into some hard post-partum depression. I don’t know if I will attempt to breastfeed again with our future children. Not that I want to waste everything we have learned in the first round. I suppose we will just cross that bridge when we get to it.

Tummy Time, featuring Baby Frank.