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Sometimes the strength of motherhood is greater than natural laws. - Barbara Kingsolver

expectations vs. reality: breastfeeding my first baby

When we were in Lamaze classes preparing for my son’s birth, I got the impression that breastfeeding was a law of nature. My instructors didn’t neglect to tell us that it requires effort and commitment, but they said that my baby might “root” for the breast soon after birth. We didn’t discuss the percentage of moms who can’t breastfeed or the reality of low milk supply or just how dang hard it is.

A week before my due date, a friend told me that she was the leanest she had ever been during her breastfeeding days. I was so excited! (Eat extra calories and burn it off through breastfeeding? Much better than the elliptical!) I thought breastfeeding your baby was simply a choice that moms make.

I had no idea that, for 20+ reasons, some moms can’t make breastfeeding work. And I was about to be one of them.

When they handed my baby to me, he did not root for the breast. Actually, he wasn’t interested in feeding at all. Instead he just lay there, rather still, after a speedy and painful delivery.

From the first time he latched about two hours later, his pursed lips formed a C-shaped clamp on the top side of my nipple. Then on the right side and the left side as we tried cradle hold, crossover hold, football hold. It felt like a bee sting or a glass shard. We called for the lactation nurses frequently. By the time we left the hospital, I had blisters and cracked, blood sore nipples.

I went home completely overwhelmed but hopeful things would get better. When we weren’t at the lactation clinic practicing and weighing, we were at home reading advice blogs, trying new strategies, or talking on the breastfeeding hotline. We both cried and squirmed and became increasingly frustrated, and I dreaded every feeding 8-12 times a day. For the brief time my baby latched, I sensed the bond, the fulfillment of providing for him, the awe of this “natural” thing. I wanted so much to make it work.

I cradled him in my arms and studied his sweet face against my rib cage. He still used tight, pursed lips to latch even after having tongue and lip ties clipped. He squirmed, gagged, and arched his back trying to get away from the reflux sliding up and down his throat.

When he latched, I felt shooting pains sear from my front into my shoulder blades. The tears slid down my face like raindrops on a window. Using my hands to express milk for him I told my body to relax, but the flow was as slow as the ketchup dripping from a glass Heinz 57 bottle.

He pulled away crying frantically, and fear washed over me like waves. His weight was dropping quickly, and nothing felt natural about breastfeeding. I pumped around the clock, but my milk was slow-flowing, and I felt like I was already failing as a mom.

Our pediatrician said that we should probably move on after 2 months of trying, but I don’t think he understood how important it was to me. I remember the day I heard a soft whisper roll by, “Let it go.” I responded with a passionate, “No, I can do this!” That is, until I finally realized how breastfeeding couldn’t be that important. Everything I was pushing on myself, I was pushing on my son too. In the end, 14 weeks of full-time effort couldn’t overcome the barriers caused by poor latch, acid reflux, and chronic low milk supply.

The day we quit breastfeeding welcomed both grief and relief. It was time to move on.

it’s okay to grieve not being able to breastfeed.

I worried that I would be misunderstood as complaining or catastrophizing our experience, questioning moms who choose not to breastfeed, or worse, attaching anything negative to my beautiful baby boy. My baby was healthy and in my arms; how could I vocalize the sting I felt? Lots of healthy babies drink formula!

But it wasn’t about formula…or social pressures, or what the lactation people said, or even the fact that breastfeeding is some sort of competitive sport these days.

I had dreamed of being a mother, and here I was losing one of the most fundamentally special things about being one. Whether I would have done it for two weeks or two years, not being able to breastfeed my baby shattered my expectations.

What I felt was a response to an ambiguous loss. It was a deep sorrow that something wasn’t as it is supposed to be. It was grief.

I felt something else, too - failure. I didn’t make the list of breastfeeding moms. But I also didn’t make the list of moms who choose not to breastfeed. I didn’t know what list I was on.

This experience doesn’t impact every mom the same way. Grief is messy and unpredictable, but it is not just reserved for tragedies. I read a quote by Bill Crowder that summarizes it intelligently: “Even events that are sweeping in scope produce a grief that is deeply personal and felt in the most private ways.” He goes on to say, “It is in the darkness, after others have gone their way, that the private expressions of grief take form.”

This was true for me - that the grief was deeply personal because breastfeeding was important to me and I didn’t know that I could “fail.” In a time when breastfeeding is undeniably ‘the gold standard,’ we don’t have a script for talking about unsuccessful breastfeeding. There will definitely be “private expressions of grief,” however that looks for each mom, but the reality should be acknowledged in more than hushed conversations.

If you’re feeling like the only one, reach out and find your people.

Most of the moms in my circles were stories of breastfeeding success. Within the year that my son was born, 9 friends had babies and 9 babies were breastfeeding. I warmed my son’s bottle as I wondered why we were different. I dealt with a lot of self-doubt and guilt. When I encountered any mom with a story like ours, it was like a light bulb clicked on. Among them were:

• A mom friend who became an exclusive pumper when she could never work out her son’s latching issues.

• A mom friend whose son’s allergies caused him to be ill every time he breastfed, even with all her diet changes. (She said her milk was “actually like poison to him.”)

• A mom friend who struggled to produce enough milk for her daughter and constantly dealt with clots and mastitis until she produced almost no milk at all.

• A mom friend who needed to take medication for an autoimmune disorder and had to give up breastfeeding even though she produced plenty of breast milk.

Talking with them helped me come to terms with one very important thing: your grief is legitimate. In counseling terms, it’s called “disenfranchised grief.” It won’t be spoken aloud in most places, but it is real and will be felt. Find your people and process with them.

Take heart. Put things into perspective. Move forward.

I have to admit that our time those first few months was clouded by trying so hard to breastfeed. When I look back, the prevailing question is not, Did I try hard enough? (although that certainly surfaces), but rather, Did I miss other things because I was so consumed by this?

I have indescribably sweet memories of my son’s first night at home, his first smile and laugh, his first bath, the first time he held eye contact, the feel of his lanugo as it slowly faded, the sandy blonde color of his hair, the way he studied the world and furrowed his eyebrows, the way he fell asleep with his arms tucked to his sides, every special little quirk. They are etched in my memories with permanent ink.

But when someone asks me about my son as a newborn, the first place my mind goes is to breastfeeding and how hard I tried to make it work. Losing that experience, that time, that special mommy and baby thing is not something to be minimized.

At the same time, it does no good to replay my efforts or second-guess myself or even let it become part of my identity as a mom. I make peace with it because what matters most are the tender, inexpressible moments of simply being with my baby boy, breathing in the same air, hearts beating in tandem, enjoying life together. Today, I am grateful to hold his now big and healthy toddler body.

Gratitude allows typically opposing things to exist within it, including both grief and joy. Practicing gratitude also heals my perspective.

My baby didn’t get much milk from me, but he did get my overwhelming, unconditional love day after day. As much as it stings, grief is a catalyst for developing more empathy, compassion, and gratitude. And we will spend all of motherhood needing to practice these things. Whatever your experience, whatever your loss, you can channel it into something beautiful - supporting other moms, advocating for solutions and healthy alternatives, or simply spending more time with your babies. There are a million ways you will be a great mom that have nothing to do with breastfeeding.

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