I breastfed my oldest son, or tried to, and it was a horrible experience for both of us.

The basics:  I was starving him.  No, he wasn’t actually losing weight, but he was clearly still hungry every time he came off my breast.  He cried.  He screamed.  He never once seemed happy after he ate, no matter how long I let him stay on the breast. We’re talking hours here, the War and Peace of breastfeeding sessions.

I consulted a lactation consultant, who weighed him pre and post feeding and assured me he was getting enough to eat.

And, in the hormonal haze of new motherhood, I listened to her instead of my instincts.  On her advice, I started limiting how long he was on the breast, pumping milk after I fed him, drinking special tea, and taking herbs to increase my milk supply.  Still, he was irate.  Growing, but irate. 

His doctor listened to my concerns and advised trying formula.  For the first time, my son napped for three hours.  The lactation consultant assured me it was because formula was so heavy and that babies are like "piggies" that will eat as much as they can even if it's too much.  And she assured me, supplementing with formula would surely lead to the end of breastfeeding.  I just needed to wait until everything kicked in, she said.  My milk would catch up, she said.  My nipples would toughen up.  It would all work out!

And, because I truly believed breast is best, I kept at it.

My days were a haze of feeding him, taking my unhappy baby off my breast, pumping milk as he fussed nearby, feeding him more.  Washing and sterilizing the pumping equipment, again, as he fussed nearby. And when that was done, it was time to feed him again.   We were both miserable.

I had my first moment of clarity when he was about six weeks old.   The lactation consultant relented that I might need to give him some formula.  But not from the dread bottle!  She taped a tubing contraption to my breasts through which I was supposed to feed him formula while he sucked on my nipples.  I looked like The Mom-inator -- half mother, half milking machine. 

No more, I said.  I’ll supplement the old fashioned way.  I continued to breastfeed, but also gave him formula.

Within two weeks he was sleeping through the night.

I continued to have troubles with infections.  Until finally the pain of feeding him was too great.  I had an abcess.  Trying to pump milk with an abscess was the singular most painful experience of my life.  I literally fell over with the pain.  Not like the pain of hurting your leg and you can’t stand, but the kind of pain that makes your whole body just give up—“I surrender!”

I hung up my girls for good, crying all the while, wracked with guilt about not giving my son what he needed, worried that my failure was dooming him to a less than healthy life. 

Two and a half years later, I was pregnant again, about to give birth to my second son.  I decided I would breastfeed him.  But this time, I would stop at the first sign of trouble.  No crazy guilt.  No prolonged agony.  

He came out perfectly healthy, but within hours of his birth, the doctor told me he was born with a forked tongue.  It has no negative implications, other than babies born with it sometimes have trouble breastfeeding because they can't latch on properly.  I breastfed him that day.  My nipples bled.  A lactation consultant came in and tried to get him to latch.  It didn't work.   Both she and a pediatrician on call said they could cut the little thing under his tongue that made it fork. 

No thank you.  First sign of trouble?  CHECK!

My boys are five and three now.  They're happy, healthy, and smart.   You can't tell them apart from the breastfed kids on the playground or in their schools.  

But you may be able to tell me apart.  I'm the very happy Mom who refuses to feel guilty about my choices and refuses to stay quiet when the militant breastfeeding establishment tries to make women feel less than anything because they're doing what they need to do for their situation.  

Stay away from my boobs and my babies!   

Cheers!

Boops