Our story this week comes from Kelley. Kelley’s story is one of determination and perseverance. Read on to see how Kelley pushed to make breastfeeding work for her and her son.
I remember a day years and years ago, when I still worked in the hospitality industry and a woman whom I knew came into the restaurant for lunch with her infant. Mid lunch I realized she was nursing the kid and I was horrified, whispering to the other staff about how dare she! Oh, the horror! I was self-righteous in my indignation and of course, I never wanted children and definitely would never breast feed.
Fast forward two decades and here I was, holding our infant son. Born eight days after my 42nd birthday, our boy came four weeks early yet still weighed a hefty seven pounds. And while I had a relatively uncomplicated pregnancy, save a slight bout of preeclampsia at the end that prompted the early labor, we had a very healthy little boy. But he did have low blood sugar and therefore the nurses started him off straight away on tiny little bottles of formula, despite the words ‘breastfeeding’ written on my chart and on his little baby card fixed to the hospital bassinet. Once we became pregnant, somewhat miraculously and naturally after three tries at the ripe old age of 41, I quickly realized I would nurse our child. Something deep within me shifted, the first of many monumental changes that moved me toward full-on motherhood. What I didn’t yet realize nor could I ever have understood was that what seemed so natural would not come easy. In fact, it was incredibly difficult.
In the hospital we met with three different lactation consultants who all said different things. One put a nursing shield on me, which I hated. Another gave me a crash course in the football hold, a complicated maneuver that my sleep-deprived brain couldn’t grasp, prompting me to take copious amounts of nursing selfies, hoping to replicate the pose once we went home.
Another brought in a small tub for washing pump parts, a method she meticulously detailed over some 20 painful minutes while I could feel my husband tensing and gritting his teeth.
“I know how to wash dishes, for crying out loud,” he grumbled upon her departure. We were frustrated, tired, overwhelmed, confused – dutifully feeding our son those tiny bottles of ‘medically necessary’ formula while trying to squeeze out my colostrum and feeding it from a spoon.
Thankfully my sister, who had breastfed my niece 18 years before, told me I needed to pump since our son wasn’t nursing that well. I started pumping, listening to the constant whirring sound of the hospital-grade pump, so tired and frustrated and feeling like a failure. Then, my milk came in – buttery yellow, thick and in great amounts.
Honestly, I cannot remember if we fed our son that milk in the hospital. I think we did, but for whatever reason they still sent us home loaded up with those tiny bottles of formula. We had a sheet of paper to log all feeds, and the amounts, along with paper upon paper of instructions. Not to mention my selfies of that football hold, the one position that really seemed to work.
We soon found our way to the pediatrician’s office as instructed, where we learned that our son was losing weight. Babies can lose up to 10 percent of birth weight, which for our son meant no more than 11 ounces, not quite ¾ of a pound, or in our case, not less than 6 pounds 5 ounces. Despite all of my best efforts he still lost weight. Those first days home our routine consisted of me trying to nurse for up to 30 minutes, using a cold wipe and trying like hell to rouse our sleepy little new baby. My husband would lurk, impatient for his turn to feed, until I would give up and hand over our son, tears streaking my cheeks, weary in my desperation. I would grab the pump a friend gifted us off our registry, a fantastic Medela almost as efficient as the one in the hospital. In my exhaustion sometimes I would hear words from the whirring, or make up songs to go along with the noise. Over days the constant churning of that pump seemed to mock me, yet the ounces upon ounces the machine received from my body kept me going, providing the encouragement I needed. We did this routine every two hours, and I could feel my husband silently cursing my determination.
Back at the pediatrician’s office with our son continuing to lose, the lactation consultant told us to use a syringe for the weekend feeds and ordered us back into the office Monday. It felt like my last chance, and in hindsight, it sure was. The routine was the same except my husband used a syringe instead of a bottle, which he detested. These so-called ‘squirrel feeds’ didn’t seem natural to him, and they left him unsettled. All that weekend I tried to nurse a lazy sleepy little bottle-fed baby while my husband lurked, impatient, for his turn to squirrel feed as I pumped. Except this time, miraculously, our son decided he did not care for a syringe and instead would try out the boob.
We returned to the pediatrician that Monday, happy to see his weight starting to creep back up. We got the green light to stop the syringe feeding and our son started nursing. But subsequent visits to the pediatrician had him not quite gaining as he should, yet again. Another round with the lactation consultant who again helped me with his latch and then told me about hind milk. She told me to keep him on each side for 20 minutes, which really never worked. He was a consistent 10 minutes per side kind of babe and thankfully, that wound up perfectly ok. The little guy wound up taking to the breast, finally, and within his first few weeks of life, after such a hard time that I think most people would have given up. In fact, my husband really encouraged me to stop trying. But I love a challenge and here we were – the reluctant breastfeeder, determined and refusing to give up. Our son never did take a bottle after that first week and wouldn’t take a pacifier. The little nugget who preferred formula at first had become quite the little boob snob.
Today, we are still going strong at 29 months. I never in a million years expected to nurse at all, let alone this long. We did recently night wean, a process that took several attempts before he was ready. Since the start we have been staunchly against any form of sleep training or cry-it-out, so I wasn’t about to do any sort of forced night weaning. The first few tries he got upset so I abandoned the attempts. Finally, right around 27.5 months he was OK with it. We still nurse to sleep and bedshare, but he knows no more milk until the sun shines. If he wakes at night we cuddle, and he rarely asks for milk anymore. But every morning when that sun comes up he loudly declares, “Sun uuupppp” and pounces like a tiger!
I’ve no idea when our journey will come to an end and honestly, I am ok with continuing to let him lead. I know not everyone understands or ‘approves’ – honestly, I didn’t get it either until we had our son. Now I know it is a bond like no other, and I know when our journey ends, I will miss it very much. And these days when I think back to that mama nursing in that restaurant, my heart warms and a smile creeps across my face. I see you, mama, and I have become you. Thank you.
What do you think about Kelley’s story? We think she’s a rockstar! Thanks for sharing Kelley!
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