I Hated Breastfeeding.
There I said it. Go ahead and judge me, critique me, criticize me. It won’t be anything I haven’t already berated myself about—over and over again for almost eight years.
Before my son was born just over eight years ago I had no question about whether or not I would breastfeed. I wasn’t Earth Mother Extraordinaire nor some would-be Granola Chick du Jour. It just seemed like the world’s most obvious no-brainer. With all of the questions looming with new motherhood, this just wasn’t one of them for me. It was the most natural option; it was the cheapest option; it was (“in theory”) the easiest option with no bottles to clean and no formula to mix. It was supposed to always be available; ready to feed my baby on-demand. How dare I deny my baby what they were calling liquid gold.
On top of that, womenshealth.gov, our Federal Government’s source for women’s health information, recommends breastfeeding exclusively for the first six months of your baby’s life. They say that breast milk has disease-fighting cells that help protect infants from germs, illness, and SIDS. They say that infant formula cannot match the exact chemical makeup of human milk—especially the antibodies that fight disease.
They say that breastfeeding is linked to a lower risk of: ear infections, stomach viruses, diarrhea, respiratory infections, atopic dermatitis, asthma, obesity, diabetes, childhood leukemia, SIDS, and necrotizing enterocolitis.
Then for the moms, they say it’s supposed to lower the risk of Type 2 diabetes, breast cancer, ovarian cancer, and postpartum depression.
How was I, a healthy, educated woman going to read all that and decide not to do it?
How was I to deny my newborn all that? What kind of parent would I be where the first decision I was making on behalf of my child’s life—would be to NOT give them the lowest risk of being an obese diabetic who has infections in his ears, lungs and skin? And that’s if I can keep my newborn from SIDS and childhood leukemia. I worked so hard to grow him healthily in my womb and then bring him into the world. How could I deny him this elixir of my soul?
No, before my son was born eight years ago, I had no doubt about whether or not I would be breastfeeding.
These claims from the “Theys” implanted themselves deep into the back of my subconscious, where they lurked and popped up at a moment’s notice whenever a morsel of doubt entered my cranium. These claims successfully tormented into the guiltiest zone on earth reserved specifically for new mothers.
My body handled the pregnancy on autopilot. Then the birth, (with doctor’s help) followed the set program. But the breastfeeding—oh no—something that was supposed to come completely naturally wasn’t natural at all. My body had a glitch in the breastfeeding program. Fail on Boob Feeding 101.
But it certainly wasn’t for lack of trying. It was an unrelenting battlefield featuring Me versus Boob. I started with the extreme feeding: exclusively and on-demand, just like They said. My baby wanted to nurse all the time. At least every hour, for an hour. If I took him off the boob, he cried. I put him back on—he stopped. And so the cycle continued for the first week. I didn’t sleep or eat much. I just carried my butt pillow around, and cried instead of my newborn, as he sucked inefficiently, from my aching boobs.
But there wasn’t enough milk. Ever. He kept sucking but there was never enough; he was never satiated. When my mother-in-law came over on the first few days and said “Maybe you don’t have enough milk,” I started sobbing and locked myself in the bathroom for over an hour.
On day five I took my newborn to a La Leche meeting. There I watched moms with children of all ages nurse with delight, engaged in a in a boob-milking orgy. One mom whose face I’ll never remember, but whose boob I will never forget, was sitting and eating Indian food out of a styrofoam container when her three-year-old came walking over and asked for a bite. She fed him off a plastic fork for a few bites and then he asked for a drink. So she lifted up her loose shirt to reveal a droopy, bra-less boob and he helped himself to a mouthful of milk.
