I had a lot of preconceptions about breastfeeding before Georgia was born. I would breastfeed for exactly one year, I wouldn’t breastfeed in public, and I probably wouldn’t need the maternity bra I had bought. I’d never need to use bottles or the unused hand pump someone had passed my way. And Hova didn’t need to worry about night feedings, because I was always going to be there for my baby.
I trusted that it would be so natural for me that angels would burst into song the first time newborn Georgia latched. And she did latch, easily, right away. And then so constantly I could barely put her down before she was crying to be fed again. She was nursing healthily, perfectly, even too much. The lactation consultant at the hospital told me that Georgia was a non-nutritive sucker, using me for a binky, and that though she rarely suggested it as an option, I might consider giving her one. She gave me sticky lanolin cream and assured me I’d get the hang of it.
It wasn't pretty: My nipples cracked, bled and felt like glass shards were piercing them. Everything I had read said breastfeeding is not supposed to hurt. La Leche League [1] was judgmental and I kept feeling like I was doing something wrong, and that my baby would be sickly and stunted if I didn’t continue with the breastfeeding. And my midwives had proven less than fully supportive during Georgia’s birth, so I wasn’t feeling too trusting of them. Every one of them told me I couldn’t possibly have what I thought I had — thrush [2]— so I felt dumb, alone and in pain.
I shamefully researched organic [2] formula (there was only one option at the time), and hopelessness mounted. I felt like a quitter: so I couldn’t deal with a little pain for my baby’s health? I’d gone through drug-free labor; I couldn’t handle this? I decided I would stick with breastfeeding for three months, and then if it was still painful I would go with formula. Needless to say, after a month of ongoing agony, came a horrible relief. Georgia's pediatrician assured me, we did indeed have thrush. I started a long course of treatment, bouncing the thrush back and forth between us, before finally getting rid of it for good.
Once the thrush was gone it was like the angels burst into song. Breastfeeding was so sweet, and it was glorious to look into my baby’s eyes and know she was finally, peacefully, getting what she needed. My milk flowed copiously. I pumped what she couldn’t drink to stave off engorgement, and halfheartedly joked about sending my milk to the hospital to give to people who were having problems, not realizing that in fact Human Milk Banks [3] were, though not common at all, certainly established.
About those preconceptions: by the time Georgia was three months old, I decided I’d breastfeed as long as she wanted, as long as she couldn’t speak in full sentences, I fed her wherever I was comfortable, and I ended up with several fabulously fitting Medela maternity bras and lots of doohickeys to try to hold the milk in. I even invested in a small electric pump that emitted a disturbing “moooooo” as it drew the milk from my breast. Hova got to feed Georgia breast milk from a bottle, and I became a breastfeeding advocate. I still think many lactation advocates can be too militant, and that everyone has to find their own way, whether you use binkys or bottles. So take it from one momster, talk about your problems and get all the support you can, and ditch the formula samples. [4] Because the temptation to give up is enormous when you’re sleep deprived and in pain.
Photo credit: conorwithonen [5]