when breast feeding goes wonderfully right: You have your baby, and she is 50 percentile for weight. And she latches on great and she eats, and you breast get engorged, but she plugs away and relieves the engorgement. You go to your first checkup and she has gained weight and is still in the 50 percentile for weight. And she eats every three hours during the day and four during the night, but you have to wake her up to feed her because she is such a sleepy head, and after each feeding you and your hubby laugh at how milk drunk she looks and the two of you feel drunk with love. And you realize that everything about her has come from your body and you are amazed at how perfectly God made us. You go for another check up and she is still in the 50 percentile for weight. Then one night she sleeps for 5 hours and your breast feel like they are going to burst, so even though she might go longer you wake her up to feed her, and then still manage to pump 4 ounces. The you go back to work (boo) and you pump every three hours and everyone in the office knows what you are doing, your secretary has seen your boobs, the judge stops trials so you can pump, no guy wants to put anything in the refrigerator in your office for fear of what they might see, but you don't care, because you love your baby more than anything in the world and feeding her and having her gain weight and be healthy are your biological imperatives. And you go to your 4 month check up and want to give her solids because she is your first baby and you are so excited about doing everything with her and the doc says to hold off and make it to six months because she is doing so great and you do it because you love her more than anything in the world and feeding her and having her gain weight and be healthy are your biological imperatives. A hurricane comes, and people are going crazy and there are no no groceries on the shelves and a stranger rushes up to you in the store and says "hurry-- they are almost out of formula!" and you smugly think "I don't need to, I've got it all right here." You nurse your baby in public. You are nursing your baby while a doctor tells you that your mom has breast cancer. You nurse your baby in bed with your chemo-striken mom and you both watch as she falls asleep on your breast and marvel at the joys of motherhood. You nurse her until your boobs sag and she can say,"mama chi-chi?" You nurse her until one day she toddles over to your lap with a sippy cup of milk and then you stop. And you do it because you love her more than anything in the world and feeding her and having her gain weight and be healthy are your biological imperatives.
when breastfeeding goes horribly wrong: you have your baby and she is she is in the 50th percentile for weight. And she latches on great and she eats and she plugs away to relieve the engorgement. And you go to her first checkup and she has gained weight and is doing great. And then you get mastitis. Two times. But you keep on keeping on because you read the Womanly Art of Breastfeeding and know that you need to power through. And then she gets a cold and you go for a sick baby appointment. And she has gained weight, but not quite as much. You and the doctor chalk it up to her being sick. She coos and smiles and does everything great and starts to sleep through the night, but you are not uncomfortable. And then you go for a two month checkup and this time she seems a little behind on the weight, but you and the doctor chalk it up to the fact that at the last appointment, she was weighed with a diaper and all of her clothes on and he says "don't worry, as long as she pees and poops okay, you are fine." And you say"well,actually, she hardly poops, just every few days," and he says, "some breastfed babies don't poop that much." And you are happy because you are not having to change 10 poop diapers a day like with baby number 1. Then you notice that it seems like you are feeding her all of the time. Some days 12 times a day. One day 17 times. One day 20 times. You dig out the first baby's breastfeeding journal and see that you only fed her 6 times a day one day, seven the next, six, seven, etc. You talk other moms about this and everyone says the same thing, "every baby is different." You start to feel worn down. The baby stops sleeping through the night and starts to wake up every two hours again. The baby seems to cry a lot. She nurses for a few minutes and then starts to pull at the breast and look up at you, and then latch on again. You start to wonder if you are not making enough milk, but quickly discount that as a possibility, because you are an educated woman and know that breast milk is the perfect food and your baby will always help increase your supply. Supplementing with formula is not a good idea because then your body won't make what you baby needs. You repeat this mantra to your mom when she suggests that the baby is hungry and you give the baby formula. You ignore your husband when he recalls all the cajoling you had to do with the first baby to pump enough milk to satisfy the caregivers at the daycare. You recall a friend whose husband asked her "would you even want to be friends with someone who fed their baby formula?" Your baby is strong, but becomes fussy. She moves her arms and legs about all the time. She is happy, but can quickly becomes inconsolable., She wants you, and only you to hold her all the time. She catches another cold and this time she has gained very little weight and the substitute doctor seems concerned but tells you to address it with your regular doctor at the next well baby visit in two weeks. You start to notice that your let-down doesn't feel very strong and you notice that it seems like a long time since you heard the baby coo. But breast milk is the perfect food and your baby will always help you increase your supply, right?? Then you go to your check up. She is on the bottom tenth percent. She has lost weight from the last visit. And all of her accomplishments, that she can roll both ways, that she can bear weight on her legs, that she is trying to sit, everything is over shadowed by how thin she is. You point out some rolls on her legs, but the doctor shows you on her groin where she is very thin. And then he says: "how to you feel about giving her formula? Nurse her, then offer her formula and go ahead and start rice cereal." You try to give her a bottle in the doctor's office but she won't take it. And you silently rejoice because you don't want it to be you. You don't want to be the one who failed her. You just want her to be a skinny asian baby. But you know. You know what is wrong, you knew all along, but didn't think it was possible because breast milk is the perfect food and your baby will always help increase your supply. Supplementing with formula is not a good idea because then your body won't make what your baby needs, so you buy another bottle in hopes that she will like that nipple better. And she does. And you are bottle feeding one of your babies for the very first time and you think, "does she still need me? what purpose do I serve if I am not giving her my milk? I am a horrible mother, I am a horrible mammal" and you go a little crazy for a minute and place a quick call to your friends who talk you off the ledge. Then she starts to poop everyday again. And then she starts to coo again, and it is the most melodic sound you have ever heard. You give her bottles of strange powdered stuff and you do it because you love her more than anything in the world and feeding her and having her gain weight and be healthy are your biological imperatives.
And those other people can find some new friends.
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