Sicker Than Others Saving the Landfills, one Giant Plastic Toy At a Time

—–The posts always sound so much more eloquent when I compose them in my head at 2 a.m. Once they see the light of day and I’ve forgotten my beautifully constructed sentences…. eh.

When I was pregnant, I warned my pro-breastfeeding activist friends that I might not be ‘able to breastfeed’. But I knew in my heart that I was perfectly capable of making milk and that any failure would be my own-I was sure that my laziness or my desire for sleep and freedom would doom our nursing relationship from the start. I was unprepared for the flood of emotion that would wash over me when this baby nestled into my arms and turned his open mouth toward my breast. I was crestfallen when we were advised of his oral motor problems, and determined to make things right. Secretly I was relieved; this was something we could fix, and it was unrelated to my breasts! My breasts were working! My breasts had milk! I watched my supply increase and I reveled in every drop of milk, proud and committed and certain that we’d get this right.  But each day for the last 3 months, success inches further away from us. A few days ago I put away the breast pump, and for the last few days I’ve watched my milk supply dwindle as my baby thrives on the organic baby formula we mix for him.

 In the beginning, I devoured websites like kellymom.com and the forums at the La Leche League. I read stories about mothers who had successfully lactated for adopted babies; for preemies who spent weeks or months in the NICU. A mother with breast implants who took a break from pumping and later re-lactated and went on to nurse for 2 years. A mother of 6 who finger fed her baby and pumped every 2 hours until the little guy ‘just figured things out’.

 And I waited for Jack to figure things out. We saw the specialist, who instructed us how to work his mouth; to teach his jaw how to suck and his lips how to curl. We pressed on his tongue to teach him how to roll it under a nipple and press it against the roof of his mouth. When he passed the ‘marker’ for a ‘good suck’ I was sure we’d turn a corner soon. We didn’t.

 Pathetically, I offer him my deflated breasts before every bottle. At times baleful, others smiling at me as if we share a private joke, he’ll dutifully suck for a moment; he knows what awaits him at the end of this useless ritual.  Those moments are so heart wrenchingly wonderful that I cannot keep from berating myself as I ease the (specially designed for breastfeeding) bottle into his hungry mouth. I didn’t pump enough. I forgot doses of Domperidone. I started going to the gym, and began to miss feedings. I slept instead of pumping. We switched to bottles when he was 5 weeks old instead of finger feeding him, and now he prefers the instant gratification of the bottle to my slow-to-react breasts. I don’t wear him enough in the sling, topless so as to offer the breast all day long.

 Those stories rattle around in my head now, anecdotal reminders of what I could not do. An online friend struggles with her 2-week-old baby, and I called her, hammered her with all the suggestions that didn’t work for us. Because I want it to work for someone.  Or do I? Maybe I’d like for once to hear someone say “yes! I did all that. We did all those things, and in the end none of it helped us. Yes! I grieved my nursing relationship. Yes! I spent days in bed, collapsed into tears at the sight of anyone breastfeeding. This is all normal, and you will be OK. One day you will be able to look at your nursing friends, your sister breastfeeding her baby, and you will be OK”

 This is not that day. Today, I prepare to leave the house for almost a whole day, to pick up my oldest daughter who’s been away for a week. Today, I sit hoping that the baby will wake before I leave so that I can touch him to my empty breast just for a moment. Today I look forward to a three hour drive alone with my thoughts and my tears. My husband offered to do this drive, leave me home with the kids. But I can’t bear it.

Today we wean.