As you may have noticed, I have a “devil may care” attitude about parenting. And by “devil” I mean “me.” I care, because OH MY SHIT a lot can go wrong with kids.
I did my best to prepare for all things baby-related before Wookie was born. I only had to return to the store SIX times after his birth to get things I forgot to buy. I consider that an achievement. I even made myself an award. And framed it. And ate ice cream. It was a good day.
I knew I would make mistakes where Wookie was concerned, but I was okay with that, because hey, if I’m going to force my characters to have flaws, I need to be okay with my own. (BAM. I AM a writer. Look at me grow.) What I wasn’t prepared for was the backlash from other moms.
There’s nothing in the “baby readiness handbooks” about how there are two different sects of baby rearing, and how each side hates the other. I wasn’t prepared for the judgment about having an epidural and how it somehow made me feel like I wasn’t fit to be a mother. Then add the breastfeeding and formula and co-sleeping, and oh my god.
My Wookie—my beautiful, amazing, perfect son—was in the NICU after he was born. When I saw him lying there, covered in wires and tubes, I felt like the shittiest mom on the planet. Somehow, it was my fault, and I felt guilty. On top of that, I couldn’t breastfeed properly. He was in the NICU and because my milk hadn’t come in yet, I couldn’t feed him. They had to give him formula, and that just piled on the shittastic feeling, because I could tell by the nurse’s concerned looks, formula was BAD.
I cried. I cried a LOT.
The big, fat, shitty topping on the cake was when I was discharged from the hospital and told I couldn’t stay with my son because I wasn’t breastfeeding. I was in that hospital room pumping away like a madwoman, as if somehow I would start spewing gold and diamonds, because I knew he needed it. And every time I got that nugget—even if it was just a drop or two—I felt some sense of pride because dammit, I was trying. And now, NOW they decided to distinguish that pumping breastmilk is somehow not as good as putting baby to boob. Did I want to breastfeed? My god, yes I did. After trying again and again and again, I did my best, but there wasn’t enough milk, he was a lazy sucker, the wires were in the way, and it was just chaos. But after everything I had done, after the pleading, the sobbing, and all the sorrys, I still had to leave the hospital without my son.
It was the worst moment of my life.
When I was finally able to bring Wookie home, I thought the technicality of pumping/boob sucking was based on hospital rules—that they were different, even though the end result was the same. However, I quickly learned that is not the case.
Bringing Wookie home was like working at my first “grown-up” job all over again. There’s so much you can’t learn from schooling and there’s even more—much to my dismay—you don’t learn from books. I learned that if you get an epidural, you’re weak. If you aren’t breastfeeding, you don’t love your child. For me, breastfeeding was always a struggle. Wookie had become accustomed to the bottle in the NICU, so I had to use a breast shield. For 2 months, Hubs and I fought with getting him to breast feed. I was finally making enough milk, so what was the problem?
Eventually, I resigned myself to being okay with just pumping. It turned out to be great anyway because then Hubs could help out with night time feedings. Besides, I was starting work again soon, so I had to exclusively pump anyway.
Except, once I started going out more with the Wookie, I would get the same questions: “Do you breastfeed?” “Did you have an epidural?” “You’re not going back to work, are you?”
Even at the doctor’s office a few weeks ago, the NURSE made me feel like garbage.
“Are you breastfeeding?”
“Yes.”
“How often is he feeding?”
“Well, he eats about 4oz every 3 hours or so.”
“Wait, are you bottle feeding him breast milk?”
“Yes…”
“We don’t consider that breastfeeding.”
“…well, what DO you consider it? It’s still breast milk. I haven’t changed the ingredients.”
She couldn’t answer, but she made sure to lecture me about the importance of TRUE breastfeeding and how I should keep trying to get him to nurse. After 6 months of a bottle, I’m pretty sure this is a no go. It got to the point where I would just sit silently and not participate in these “mommy-bashing” games. The low point was when I would even agree, because after so many times of the peer pressure, I was tired of being made to feel like shit. Sure, I “breastfeed” like you think I do. OF COURSE I didn’t get an epidural. Pfft. I knit diapers, make my own baby food, AND I secrete breast milk. I’m Wonder Mom.
Except, that made me feel worse. So I stopped talking about it. I cried to my poor husband so many times about how I was made to feel guilty, when all I wanted was to just be with my family.
After MONTHS of depression, I realized, that was it—just be with my family. Screw all the haters. My son is HAPPY. Does he care that because of my dwindling milk supply he has to have formula? Or that he uses disposable diapers? Or that I didn’t buy the most expensive bottles with the best airflow? He doesn’t give a damn. As long as I love him, the rest be damned.
Fist bump for all those tired of feeling ashamed. Love your kids and be happy, dammit.