After many, many weeks of producing a never ending stream of yellow baby mustard poo, my child went on strike. The parade of gook full diapers had begun to taper off around the seventh week or so, moving from torrent to steady flow. Later, we moved on to constant trickle and then, suddenly, in week nine, we went a whole day without a poop. What had happened? Had I lost my milk making mojo? Emmy didn’t seem hungry, I hadn’t changed my eating habits, but still … where was the assuring mustard smear I’d come to relay on as proof my child was eating?
As a breastfeeding mom I have no idea exactly how much my child eats. Two ounces, no ounces, sixty-four ounces, a cheeseburger with fries, it’s a mystery. All I know is that my daughter was going through diapers like I was going through clean t-shirts. We both should have been doing it professionally. It was comforting, seeing those dirty diapers. If something was coming out, something MUST have been going in. And there was tons coming out.
And then nothing was coming out.
At all.
For days.
My daughters didn’t poop for almost a week.
And that, I learned, is perfectly normal.
Mind you I learned this after sitting on my couch, baby in one arm, laptop in the other, tears streaming down my face, desperately searching WebMD for the symptoms of baby butt cancer.
Ends up that some babies who are breastfed digest their food super efficiently, leading to a big drop off in poop. It is perfectly normal, perfectly healthy, and perfectly horrifying.
Now, this is not my first ride on the bucking bronco of some of the more alarming effects of breastfeeding. I haven’t had what you might call a “friendly” relationship with breastfeeding. Rather we’re more like rival super villains working together to foil the superhero Hungry Baby. There is no trust or joy in this relationship, it is one based on necessity and a common purpose. And while I’ve heard other women use words like “wonderful” and “pleasurable” when describing their experience with breast feeding, I would not use these words. I would use words like “ouch,” “grrrr,” and “again?!”
I made the choice to breastfeed long before my child was born and knew it wouldn’t be easy. I was told it would hurt, but only for the first week or so. I was told that I would get frustrated at times, but that if I stuck with it, it would all be worth it. I was reminded by my doctor, my mother, all the books I read, and most of the websites I was addicted to that the breast was best. Children who are breastfed have higher IQ’s, better immunity to pathogens, get far less ear infections and colds, and…they can fly. In fact, towards the end of my pregnancy I began to feel that not breast feeding Emmy was akin to poisoning her. After all, didn’t I love my baby? Didn’t I want to give her the absolute best? Didn’t I want her to have every advantage?
Of course I did.
And that’s why I had to breastfeed, no excuses.
And then Emery was born … and I starting breastfeeding…and I thought my nipples were going fall off.
It all started in the hospital.
Emmy’s latch, how her mouth grabs onto the nipple, was great, she could get on a breast like no one’s business. And once she was on, she never wanted to let go. Ever. In fact, she was such a tenacious little sucker I’m pretty sure I could have let go of her, stood up, and walked across the room with my arms at my sides and she’d just tangle there, perfectly fine, still attached. The hospital’s lactation coach came to see us and told me that I was golden. She told me I was the best in the hospital and I was doing everything perfectly.
