Boobs Talking About Boobs

Man, am I worked up.

This new government campaign on breastfeeding (and the New York Times article that discusses it) makes me want throw myself prostrate on the floor, windmill my legs furiously and howl at the injustice of it all (that’s how we show frustration in my house). The government is sponsoring a new awareness campaign that compares not breastfeeding your child for at least six months to smoking while pregnant. They also compare it to riding a mechanical bull while with child.

Breastfeeding did not work for me. (TMI and excessive talking about myself ahead: beware!) As soon as I was stitched up and got to hold Muffin for the first time, I put her at my breast. The nurse on duty took one look at the situation, and very helpfully told me breastfeeding was not going to work for me. Apparently, I was supposed to be wearing breast shells during the last weeks of pregnancy to make my nipples more pronounced and baby mouth-ready. Hello, couldn’t someone tell me these things?? To tell you the truth, I don’t know that I would have actually worn them that much anyway. I worked right up until I went into labor, and I can’t imagine the impression I would have made in my office walking around with pronounced nipple falsies.

But back to the story. Things got better. The hospital’s amazing lactation consultant (I called her the Breast Whisperer) came by the next day and helped us figure things out. It was hard each time, but while I was in the hospital I did manage to breastfeed. And a number of my husband’s friends got a good look at my knockers, which once my milk came in, were truly a sight to behold.

Then five days later, we went home. And it all went to shit.

Muffin would not latch. In fact, she would arch her back and scream when I tried to feed her. So I pumped and we fed her with a finger-feeder syringe so as to prevent nipple confusion. I had a lactation consultant come to my apartment – twice – and we made a little bit of progress. But Muffin would only nurse from one side, and only with a nipple shield that kept slipping off. I did tongue exercises with her, as the consultant had recommended. We broke the finger feeder and embarked on a crazed scavenger hunt of the neighborhood drugstores trying to find another before she got hungry again. My hands got so sore from plunging the syringe at a steady rate so as to not gag her with milk. I came down with mastitis -- twice. We kept breaking the damn syringes. I dreaded feeding Muffin, which meant days mostly full of worry, since she ate every 2-3 hours. We tried and tried and tried and it just wasn’t getting better. Her anatomy just did not seem to fit with mine.

So we broke down and gave Muffin a bottle and I started pumping regularly. She took right to it, and I began enjoying feeding time. I’d continue to put her at the breast at least once a day, but she never seemed to get very much before falling asleep. I couldn’t do much to keep her awake; the oxytocin made me narcoleptic, and I’d be nodding off too in minutes.

Pumping was stressful and painful. I often pumped out blood with the breastmilk. It was hard to find 30 minutes 3-4 times a day when the baby didn’t need to be held and I wasn't doing her laundry/showering/trying to eat. And oh, how I grew tired of washing all those tiny plastic pieces.

But I found a way. And really, I was lucky; I had a good supply, so I could get away with pumping less often than most women.

I went back to work when Muffin was 3 months old. I dragged that 10-pound pump an hour on the subway each way, giving me a nagging pain in my back. I dutifully hit the pumping room on another floor several times a day and tried not to feel weird when I’d encounter co-workers with my hands full of still-warm boob juice.

But a month later, I was done. I was done with the sore back, done with spending half of my already short work day trying to find time when the pumping room was free, tired of strapping on the cones or torture when I was exhausted and just wanted to sleep, and tired of panicking that Muffin wouldn’t have enough milk for the day, tired of being resentful instead of just enjoying my daughter. Despite all this, it really was agonizing making the decision to give up.

But once I did, I gotta tell you, it was such a relief. Muffin took to formula no problem. She got her first tooth two weeks later, and I comforted myself with the fact that maybe I would have had to quit anyway.

I tried. Hard. I hope I gave it my best. Muffin had a lot of colds this winter, and I do wonder if she’d have a stronger immune system if I’d kept at it longer. Of course, crawling around on the floor, where people’s shoes tramp in dirt and germs, might have contributed too. Licking the wheels of her stroller cannot have helped either.

I think there are moms, like me, who just can’t make it work. They have a low supply or their babies won’t latch. These moms don’t need anyone making them feel worse. We feel badly enough already, thank you very much.

Then there are moms who don't have all the resources at their disposal that I do. They might not give birth in hospitals that offer solid breastfeeding support. They can’t afford fancy home lactation consultants. They might have jobs that don’t offer maternity leave so they’re back at work as soon as they’re able. The price of a breast pump ($200+) might be too steep, and besides their workplaces don’t offer a private place or the breaks necessary to pump anyway. They don't deserve to be shamed.

And I don't either.