It's a confusing world in the land of motherhood. Breastfeeding in particular.
First no one said much of anything beyond that brief afternoon in the maternity class conducted with a life sized doll. And the doll did not squirm! I vaguely remember reading something like ". . . the baby, lying on my pelvis & covered with vernex, crawled up & latched himself to my swollen breast" So, I did this but he didn't latch on. And, as I discover later, he had practically eaten my nipples. This hurts an awful lot.
Fast forward two days later please.
I am lounging around in my hospital room, topless & slathered in Lansinoh. Me, shy, demure, discreet me, I am not the least bit shy when four French med students enter with clipboards & questions. I am pumping dammit and they are interrupting. Why am I pumping? To get the milk to come in! Where is it? It should be here by now *furrowed brow*. Quick take some fenugreek! Drink more water! Create less stress! It's a losing battle.
I end up at home, leaving the hospital with 6 bottles of formula and partially working breasts. I realize that I've never used formula and my baby may reject that as much as he seems to reject my breasts. At home, feedings which should seem less stressful multiply to the breaking point due to the number of visitors who have descended upon us like hungry vultures. They are everywhere. They come bearing cute gifts so we'll open the door. They want to see the baby now before he grows another minute older! They want to see the baby that won't eat. They all express immediate & overwhelming concern: "he looks hungry", "maybe he's hungry," "do-ya think he's hungry?" and the famous..."have you tried feeding him?" I trudge upstairs again, but due to the number and noise of the well-meaning visiting vultures there is no milk let-down. Sure the milk is there but the milk won't come. My baby is a screaming, squirming, reptile in my slippery new mom hands. I yell downstairs to my own mother, who is busy serving snacks and politely conversing, "mom can you please come here?" I discreetly ask her for a hot towel and she trudges back upstairs with a dripping microwaved washcloth. "What's going on?" say the well meanin visiting vultures. "I thought he was hungry, why is she giving him a bath?" The washcloth helps. The milk lets down. The baby sucks. I've made it safely through another feeding.
Here I'm going to go lurk on a breastfeeding web board I frequent & lift some random comments. I'll be right back:
. . . On one side it feels like a rug burn and on the other side it feels like pins. His latch on one side is better on one side than the other but I can't seem to get him to change it.
. . . he constantly pulls and yanks on the boob when trying to poop while nursing
. . . my breasts are SO engorged after only 3 hours. They are hard as a rock and lumpy and VERY painful!
. . . She was nursing fine and several times a day but since Saturday she'll only nurse for about 10 minutes, cries and then seems finished. Any ideas?
See, this stuff is VERY difficult. No one tells you any of this. After all, there really is no way to explain it. And maybe you wouldn't listen anyway. Once we were in the throes of breastfeeding we just carried on. I entertained the idea of stopping at least five times a day. I cried tears of frustration. I hated every second of the whole thing. But, we carried on through hour long nursing sessions one following right on top of the other, we made it through screaming kick fests, colic to reflux, grabbing, chewing & biting. And we have prevailed making it to to the "easy phase." Ten minute nursing sessions just four times a day. The joy of being able to bring comfort in an instant anywhere, anytime. The bond so strong it's scary to think of stopping one day.
So join me in a toast & lift your glasses to five months of breastfeeding my little doll.
