The lowest low of mom-ing for me came when Grant was only a few weeks old, and I found myself telling Matt I was dreading him waking up, because I didn’t want to feed him. It was 1:30 in the morning when he next opened his eyes. We were all on the couch; I was trying to get my hungry, screaming, flailing, tiny baby to latch, and we were both just unable to make it happen. I was sobbing, and as Matt brought me a bottle of pumped milk from the fridge, he asked me why I thought I had to keep doing something Grant and I both hated so much.
That was the end of my breastfeeding journey.
Technically, I pumped for a couple more weeks, but soon my baby was chugging bottles so fast, I just didn’t care to try and keep up. I wanted to snuggle him, lay on the floor and play with him, take him out to the park...all things I wasn’t able to do with my boobs literally plugged into the wall.
Moms can't get it right when it comes to feeding their babies, though.
If you breastfeed in public, you're shamed for exposing yourself.
If you breastfeed covered in public, you're shamed for covering up "for societal pressure."
If you bottle feed in public, nursing moms look at you with sad puppy eyes because you should be nursing.
If you exclusively pump, you're shamed for taking too many breaks at work to keep your boobs from exploding all over a room.
If you nurse in front of someone, you're inappropriate...never mind they're at your house.
If you leave the room to nurse, you're antisocial and rude to your visitors.
If you ask a visitor to leave so you can pump, you're rude.
If you pack formula and ask wait staff for cold water to mix it with, you're FEEDING THE BABY COLD WATER??!!? (this one happened to me...often...yes, my fucking baby prefers cold milk, fill up the mother fucking cup please!)
There is literally no way to feed an infant without someone being mad about it.
At my six week visit with my OB, I told him I felt like I had failed, and that I was doing Grant a disservice, because basically everyone on the planet expects you to breastfeed your infant until they turn 25 and graduate college. He looked at me and assured me that Grant was doing just fine; he told me that formula is no longer evaporated milk like it used to be. "It is literally, practically breast milk, and he's fine" was exactly what he told me. I was so grateful in that moment, to hear someone (other than my partner, who was a constant reassurance) tell me I was not a failure. I cried. He told me that it is actually quite normal for moms who deliver via csection before going into labor - and thus actually never going into labor - to not release enough of the hormone needed to produce enough milk for their baby, and that it also makes it harder for the baby to know how to root around, latch, and nurse successfully.
^^ Information that Nurse Eyeliner must have missed in nursing school, by the way. ^^
I went home, armed with the support of my OB, ready to tell anyone who questioned me to fuck off. I could feed my baby formula if I wanted, and he could drink it cold if he wanted, and he would not die from lack of breast milk. Not nursing would have no effect on the bond Grant and I should have, nor would breast milk turn him into a serial killer. I could spend $20 a week on formula for the next 50 weeks, and everyone could just shut up about it.
I am lucky in that I didn't run into a lot of shame around feeding Grant. My circle of support was still a circle of support around formula feeding - even my friends who breastfed for what seemed like years, were encouraging and supportive, and I wasn't as bothered by sad puppy stares by crunchy moms at restaurants who were clearly worried I was poisoning the baby. However, that is not the case for everyone. There is a huge pressure to breastfeed in society, in mom groups, online, and even in the freaking hospital. When Grant was losing weight from not nursing because I had a csection and my body was blissfully unaware that we weren't pregnant anymore, Nurse Eyeliner and Crew used donor milk as a threat.
Night One: "If you can't do it, we'll have to supplement with donor milk."
Okay. Do that then, you fucking ass hole. I don't give a shit. Just don't give him a beer.
Night Two: "If he loses 4 more ounces tonight, we'll have to supplement with formula."
Bitch. Give him whatever you want...just don't come in here and wake me up about it. In fact, give him the beer if you want.
Before letting me go home, they made me make an appointment for the following day with this Lactation Quack, who basically felt me up for an hour while watching Grant struggle to breath as she shoved his nose into my boobs, which were bigger than his head. She wanted to see me every 3 days or something insane, and had a whole plan about nursing and pumping and stimulating and boob grabbing. I never saw her again. Again, someone in the medical profession who missed the class on csections and hormones, who just wanted me to do it The Right Way.
So, as it turns out The Right Way for us was formula. And what do you know, it was fine. Grant didn't die. In fact, at two years old he outweighs most three year olds we know, drinks 2% milk from a cup, and - like his mama - has a bowl of dry Cheerios with chocolate chips for breakfast in the morning. Because we share a bond just by existing, that we didn't need to nurse to form.
#endmomshaming
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