Wait and See

You'll just have to wait and see.

That's what the doctor told me about the possibility of nursing a baby, following breast reduction surgery when I was eighteen years old. I have to admit, it mattered then, but it seemed such a distant issue. I didn't worry myself over it.

We'll just have to wait and see.

That's what I told everyone when I got pregnant.  Nursing was beginning to gain popularity again, after a generation of formula and bottle feeding. Everyone wanted to know if I planned on breastfeeding, but it was a difficult question to answer. It didn't matter if I planned to or not, my body was going to decide for me. I convinced myself I could will it to happen. If I took care of myself during pregnancy, which I did, and I wanted it bad enough, it would happen. Then I gave birth, and it didn't. It wasn't that my baby couldn't latch or that he didn't want to eat. It was me. I had gone almost a full week trying, and it was so difficult to know. Was he eating enough? Was he eating at all?

Let's just wait and see. 

That's what the lactation specialists in the hospital who probably meant well said when I had my doubts. They really did a number on me. They insisted I keep trying and sent me home with the mega machine breast pump. Not the ones you buy in the store, a loaner from the hospital. They gave me all kinds of strategies and told me to wrap my breasts in cabbage leaves to stimulate milk production. They pressured me to keep trying, made me feel like I was a quitter if I didn't keep at it. I felt inadequate and uneasy, and I didn't sleep much. I wouldn't call it postpartum depression because it was only around eating times. No matter how hard I tried, it just wasn't happening. I could just tell my baby wasn't eating.

It's ok. Let's just give him a bottle.

Image retrieved from myhealthybee.com

That's what my husband said to me the night before he had to go back to work. He looked at me and sensed my desperation. It's ok, Laurie. And he went into the kitchen and prepared a bottle of formula and brought it to me. And just like that, my tiny little baby boy chugged down his first bottle like a beer on Super Bowl Sunday. I was grateful my baby was eating. I was grateful my husband was so supportive and understanding. I only wish the people in the hospital would have been a little more sensitive to my experience. It took me a couple of months to get over the idea that nursing your baby doesn't make you a better mom than one who bottle feeds. Being a good mother means giving your baby what he needs, and often your instinct is the best indicator of what those needs are. I knew my baby wasn't eating. I knew I wasn't nursing successfully.  Thankfully, my husband knew when I needed to be reassured. I love him for that. And it was win-win because my husband got to enjoy the bonding moments of feeding our baby too. And for that we're both grateful.