When I had my first son two years ago, I was hell-bent on doing everything
*right*. Among the necessaries on my list for being the perfect mom was the importance of breastfeeding O for the first year of his life. However, O made his appearance 3 weeks early which placed him on the small side, and when the numbers on the scale kept inching downward despite around the clock feedings, even the lactation consultants were encouraging us to supplement with
evil formula.
As I sat in the hospital holding a syringe of formula in my child's mouth, tears streamed down my face and I was consumed with the feeling that I had already failed as a mother. I was convinced that it was my fault that my milk took forever to come in, as if I had control over such
innate bodily functions.
In order to counter my guilt in the face of formula-induced failure, I was resolute that once my milk came in, I would do everything in my power to compensate for my
initial failure by exclusively breastfeeding.
After my milk finally arrived with O, he settled into a miserable schedule of hour-long around the clock feedings every two hours for five months, at which point we transitioned to around the clock feedings every three hours through his sixth month. During these feedings I constantly struggled to keep O awake and eating at the breast. After each and every feeding I spent 30 minutes pumping in an attempt to sustain my supply, which typically only garnered a few
measly ounces.
Despite being so sleep deprived that I couldn't think or see straight, guilt drove me to continue exclusively breastfeeding, because that is what I was
*supposed* to do if I really cared at all about what was best for my baby.
I became a slave to my son's feeding schedule. I couldn't go anywhere because by the time I finished our hour-long feeding sessions and packed us both up to head out, it was time to feed again. I truly felt imprisoned and I began to resent O, which of course brought on even more guilt.
I can't tell you how many days I fantasized about whipping open a can of
Similac, handing the baby over to the Hubs, and leaving the house for a couple of hours. In my post-
partum haze, however, I convinced myself that such an indulgence was selfish, which in turn made me a bad mom, which of course left me wracked with guilt rather than basking in much-needed relaxation.
Around and around I went with this destructive thought pattern fighting to get through each day of the first six months of my son's life. All the while I became more and more depressed, isolated and overwhelmed. The destruction finally came to an end when I started working six months after my son's birth. My inability to efficiently pump any meaningful amount of milk forced me to admit defeat and bust open the formula.
While you would think the end of my breastfeeding days would have brought a relief from the craziness that defined those days, instead I felt like a failure for not being able to continue breastfeeding through my son's first year of life. The insane part is that I didn't
want to breastfeed for a year, I was convinced I was
supposed to do so to be adequate as a mother.
Eventually I got over myself and focused my efforts on other ridiculous guilt-inducing activities, like attempting to make all of
O's baby food from scratch . . . which
HA,
apparently fresh, local, organic homemade baby food isn't all that important if your baby is so intent on not eating it that he would rather let himself starve to death.
Anywho, when I became pregnant with #2 I promised myself that I would take a more relaxed approach to breastfeeding this go-around. While I have succeeded at being more relaxed at breastfeeding, I'm now left with guilt over my approach.
Things have been very different with Baby E. In addition to taking care of a newborn, I also have a two-year-old, a demanding job, and a husband that works 75-hour weeks with frequent nights out of town, which often leaves me playing pseudo-single-mom.
Breastfeeding with Baby E started out fine--he was a full two pounds bigger than O at birth, and as such we were all much less concerned about his weight. While a case of jaundice did force us to initially supplement, this time around I truly wasn't bothered by it. However, from the get-go I have had to contend with an energetic two-year-
old's constant requests for drinks, snacks, puzzles, crayons and mainly mommy's attention, all immediately needed as soon as mommy starts feeding his little brother.
In response to the need for attention-splitting, and the guilt brought on by not being able to give my all to either child, I started occasionally supplementing bottles with Baby E after a month or so. After throwing in an occasional daytime bottle, I decided I could also accept the idea of feeding Baby E bottles at night, rather than offering him the breast. After all, I couldn't afford to be as sleep deprived as I was with the O because I have so much more on my plate. This
nighttime bottle-feeding plan was firmly put in place after its trial run resulted in E regularly sleeping for NINE hours straight at six weeks old.
At eight weeks old I handed Baby E off to our amazing daycare provider, and trudged back to work. The first week back I fed Baby E from the breast first thing in the morning, pumped twice during the day, and fed Baby E from the breast immediately upon picking him up from daycare. It quickly became apparent that the morning feeding wasn't going to work. I am solo every morning and getting myself and two boys ready and out the door by 7:45 isn't feasible when you throw in a 30-40 minute feeding. Then there was the pumping, which occasionally had to be
sacrificed or pushed back because of long court appearances or client consults.
As I have allowed obligations to trump milk-production, that production has dwindled to a trickle, and my son has reacted by becoming frustrated and impatient at the breast. I briefly decided to try and amp up my supply with Mothers Milk Tea,
Fenugreek supplements, and more water than the Hudson River, but that lasted all of a day and a half.
So here I stand at almost 12 weeks post-
partum, and I think we're officially done breastfeeding. While I want to say I'm o.k. with this early weaning, I'm fighting back the guilt once again. I feel guilty that Baby E isn't getting as much
breast milk as his brother received. I feel guilty that I can't give him the same time and attention as I had with O. I know much of this is beyond my control, but I feel guilty that I allowed myself to have such a relaxed (
healthy?) attitude about breastfeeding this time around.
I am trying to look at Baby E and admit that he's growing like a weed, he's healthy, and most of all he's happy. He smiles and coos more than most babies double his age, and he sleeps through the night EVERY NIGHT. I know I should count my blessings, and give myself credit for the almost 12-weeks of breastfeeding I was able to give Baby E, and so why am I left trying to push away the guilt?
