Got milk?

I was just re-reading through Elliot's blog, and although I alluded to some feeding issues, I realized that I never really went into the details of what exactly transpired between Elliot, me, and my boobs. So here's the story, in all its sordid detail.

I have always assumed that I would breastfeed any kids that I would have. It's cheaper, less fuss, and the way nature intended things, or at least that's what I thought. And throughout the whole pregnancy I obsessed and worried about all sorts of things, but never gave a second thought to breastfeeding. I knew that it could be really tricky at first, but I was completely confident that baby and I would sort it out. I mean these boobs have got to be good for something, and it certainly isn't jogging. Not surprisingly, I was quite disappointed that things didn't work out the way I had planned (but then again, I'm beginning to realize that things never go as planned when you're a mom, and it's best not to get your panties in a bunch over it).

From the beginning, as you know, Elliot was not interested in eating (or anything besides sleeping really). In hospital, we (and when I say we, I mean Paul, me, a mid-wife and maybe even the lactation consultant) would have to wake Elliot up and harass the heck out of him to keep him awake while he gave breastfeeding a go. We'd blow on his face, shake his hands, flick his feet, tickle him under his chin, and do just about anything else you could think of to keep him awake and sucking. But he really just wasn't interested. For three days, we tried different positions, different techniques, two different types of nipple shields, and medication for me all in the hopes of getting more milk from me and better suction and interest in the whole process from him. During this time, a couple of dozen people must have had a hold of my bosoms and Elliot's head in hopes of getting the nipple, his mouth, and the stars aligned just right so that the milk bar would finally open for business and his eyes would sparkle with delight as he happily lapped up the wholesome goodness of home-grown milk. But try as we might, it just never happened!

Finally, after his lethargy and weight loss continued, I agreed to pumping and giving him a bottle with my expressed milk. After another day of realizing that I could pump for hours on end, Paul could give me back rubs or twiddle my nipples, I could think happy, loving, baby thoughts, and I still wasn't getting anywhere near a meal's worth of milk for the little guy, I agreed to supplementing my milk with formula. I don't regret this at all because he really needed to eat, but unfortunately, after having a bottle, Elliot was even less interested in struggling with my less-than-productive bosoms.

And so this became the long feeding pattern that persisted for seven very long weeks: I would put Elliot on my boob so that he could give it a go. He'd cry and get frustrated because he was hungry and was getting no love. I'd beg and plead for him to keep trying, and then I'd get all stressed out and start crying myself. Then, in exasperation, I'd give him a bottle of the expressed milk that I'd pumped out after the last feed which amounted to maybe 60 millilitres (about 2 ounces) on a good day after about 90 minutes of effort. After he downed that in a matter of seconds (and gave me an utterly unsatisfied look), I'd switch to a bottle of formula which he would also guzzle down. Then I'd get Elliot settled down for a nap and quickly try to prepare for the next feed before he woke up crying. I'd get out the pump, slap it on a nipple and turn it on. I won't go into how humiliating, painful, and boring it was to sit on my bum with a suction cup yanking my nipple in and out for hours on end as I prayed with all my might to finally hit the mother lode of milk. The right nipple was depressing and the left totally devastating. At some point during the pumping session, Elliot would wake up, I'd say a few not-so-nice words under my breath about giving me a bloody minute since I am trying to produce his sustenance especially since he had an uncanny ability to wake up screaming just when things were just starting to flow, and then I'd go and get him. Inevitably, the left breast would decide to produce in a current as soon as I turned off the pump and picked him up. (Can I just mention here how cruel it was of my left breast to rub it in my face like that?) I'd try to get him interested in something and then try to continue with the pumping or give up and rub my cracked nipples down with some lanolin and then take my liquid gold to the kitchen to put in the fridge for safe keeping until he was ready for it. Then I'd begin the preparations for the next feed: making up the next bottle of formula, disassembling the pump, scrubbing down all the different pieces as well as the bottles used in the previous feedings and putting them all in the sterilizer, boiling the water and pouring it out to cool so it would be ready for when Elliot got hungry again. With all that done, I'd have less than an hour to play with Elliot or to try to get something important accomplished (like have a wee) and then the whole cycle started again, all day long, around the bloody clock.

And the routine was pretty much the same the whole time we were in and out of hospital with all the doctors, nurses, medical students, other moms and dads and their family members coming in and out of our room. I have no idea how many people would have seen my breasts being sucked in and out of a clear plastic funnel, but I'm just grateful that most of them politely glanced away. The sight of it is nothing remotely close to the beautiful picture of a mother warmly holding her new child to her bosom, I can assure you. In fact, the only difference in the routine in hospital was that I had to get a nurse's attention in order to put my liquid gold in the fridge or get it out again. We weren't allowed to go into it ourselves due to the chance of a milk mix-up. I don't think I probably need to explain how I felt one afternoon when I went to get my milk and they told me there wasn't any! Are you kidding me? That meager amount of milk represented 90 painful minutes of humiliatingly hard work! It turns out my milk was discovered later in the evening down in the hospital's freezer when it was accidentally grouped together with a woman who was pumping out gallons of the stuff. The bitch.

I hate to sound so pained about it all, but it really was such a difficult time for me. I had decided that no matter how hard breastfeeding was, I would persist until Elliot was at least three months old. But in the end, I think it was better that I decided to throw in the towel at seven weeks like I did. It wasn't an easy decision for me and I felt so guilty for not making it work, but with all that pumping and fussing about I never got to just enjoy Elliot. In fact, I was actually beginning to resent him for being hungry. And then I would read in these new parent books to try and catch some sleep when the baby sleeps and I just wanted to spit. If I slept when Elliot slept, he would have no food and my bosoms would miss out on the needed stimulation to keep up their pathetic excuse for milk production. Paul felt so bad, but what could he do really? His boobs weren't going to just pick up my slack, were they?

So there you go; now you know, whether you wanted to or not and I, for one, feel much better for sharing.