Breast Is Best!

This, is what greeted me when I went to look up some information on whether you can store a made-up bottle of formula in the fridge or not.

I mean seriously, I had to click 'I accept' in order to continue into the site to access the information I was looking for. Thank god I didn't go to the official Heinz Nurture Formula website before I was finally ok with my decision to stop breastfeeding. This probably would have prolonged my misery and Little Beans frustration. If that weren't enough, there is even this important notice on the formula tin:

Just in case we didn't already know.

With all these warnings being forcibly shoved down our throats, how is one able to jump to any conclusion other than 'formula is dangerous'. Clearly, I shouldn't even think about feeding it to my Baby unless I have spoken with a doctor first. It must be far more dangerous than anyone lets on, oh hang on, they do let on. They let on that it's far more dangerous than it can possibly be. Because if it was really this dangerous then it would be illegal.

What should be illegal, is all this vitriol and endless in-your-face campaign to promote breast-feeding at the expense of all else. Yes, for those who have no problems breastfeeding, then that is the best thing by far. But if you are one of the unlucky ones - who by the way, would have lost their child, or resorted to cows milk or even found a wet nurse in the past - then the mental angst that results from your inability to breastfeed without issue, means that you are made to suffer unnecessarily, when there is a more than ok alternative to feed your little one.

The Perfect Mum

Ironically, those lactation cookies actually worked. Even more ironic was when I realised that I was gutted that they had. But, once I realised this, suddenly everything became clear. I am done with the breast feeding.

Literally, as soon as I realised that, everything changed. I felt lighter than I had in ages, I suddenly had all this energy to play with Baby Bean, I wasn't in a constant state of guilt and anguish and the stubborn drive to persevere was no longer plaguing my every thought.

I feel like I can finally focus on just being her mum, rather than trying to live up to this perfect ideal of what her mum should be. In my head, this is the ideal I felt I had to reach for.

Well, let me tell you, if you are this person, then I salute you, NAY, BOW TO YOU!
You are a goddess of epic proportions and you should be given a medal. A really fucking big diamond medal.

I haven't met you yet though, which is strange considering that before Bean was born I believed you existed everywhere. I really thought that perhaps, I could even be you.

But alas, I cannot. In fact, in appears that despite the fact that this is what every mother is encouraged to be, told to be, and believes that she SHOULD BE, this perfect mum is a mythical creature who exists only in magazines and parenting books. The reality of mummyhood is far uglier, far less photogenic and definitely wouldn't sell magazines.

So, having reconciled the fact that me breastfeeding Bean to the age of 2 years and beyond is not a realistic nor achievable goal for our family, I feel my tight grasp on attempting to be a magazine mum disappearing. The guilt is sliding away with it, and with every bottle of formula I feed her, I feel more relaxed. I am becoming me again, and in the process, I am becoming her mum rather than trying to be societies version of her mum. The best mum for her, and the best mum for me. So for the first time in a very long time, Bean and I spent a fantastic, relaxed day together. She slept sometimes, and I napped then too, because I wasn't pumping. I cleaned a bit and played with her, did some baking and we even went out to the wildlife zoo together. When Hubby got home, I went out and bought a new bra and I feel fabulous.

The Breastfeeding Post

It begins in the hospital. The minute you are in recovery after giving birth, they try to latch baby on, if this doesn't work right away, they start prodding you, squeezing you and syringing colostrum out of you. Every three hours a midwife comes and repeats the process, but you are so tired and exhausted, you don't care about how weird or humiliating or degrading it is to have someone do this to you.

If this doesn't work and your milk doesn't come in soon enough, they hook you up to giant pumps which make such a racket you really will imagine you are in a milking shed. When that fails to have the desired impact, you start to ask about formula.

Every 6 or 7 hours the midwives change shifts, and you get a new one, sometimes they are friendly, sometimes they look stressed. You must explain your story to them every single time. I haven't got my milk yet. Baby won't latch. I have inverted nipples. There is nothing to latch on to. They've tried that, and that, and that, and now we are using a shield. Please could I give her some formula, because she won't stop crying.

At first they ignore you, pretend they haven't heard you, but if you persist long enough, or raise your voice loud enough, because you think it's only fair that your baby should be fed somehow, then they will lecture you about how great breast milk is and that you must keep trying.

If you are still kicking up a fuss after all this, despite how tired, how sore and how emotional you are  (because just hours ago you gave birth to a baby after 25 hours of labour, and you haven't slept in close to 40 hours and you have no idea who this infant is in your arms and you really thought you'd love it instantly), but you still can't feed the baby, then they will bring you pamphlets on the ill effects of formula, and then a form for you to sign off your consent for every single formula feed.

Then they will bring you a tiny cup, and put a little bit of formula into it. And you will ask, as a new midwife you haven't yet been introduced you attacks your breasts with cold hands and a syringe, "why can't I feed her with a bottle?" They will respond without smiles, "we don't want her to get used to feeding from a bottle."

So eventually you are allowed to go home. You still haven't figured this breastfeeding thing out, and you know if your heart that baby will never latch without the shield. But you keep trying.

For two months you live a daily ritual of pumping, bottle feeding, attempted breast feeding. For two months, every single formula top up you give her will make you feel incredibly guilty. Every midwife visit, every plunket visit,  and every doctor visit you must explain why you are bottle feeding, explain why you use a shield, explain why you are using formula, explain why you are in this situation. And every single time you will feel like a failure as they look at you and ask the exact same questions you have now been asked a hundred times over. "Have you seen a lactation consultant?" "Can I have a look?" "Are you pumping to feed her expressed milk?""Have you tried x, y, z?"

Then miraculously, at 3 months you succeed! For a full 3 weeks you manage to feed her a diet of nothing but breastmilk. You are beside yourself with excitement and feel like a good mother for the first time since she was born.

Then at four months, everything changes. Baby starts refusing the breast, you have a graze on your breast where the shield rubs every time she feeds and you are in pain. You start turning to pumping, and bottles, and formula again, and everyone asks why, why, why? As if somehow it's their business.

A plunket nurse comes to visit, and you try to explain what's been going on, but all they say is, 'when she's hungry enough she'll feed, don't give in and give her a bottle, or that's all she'll want." So you feel rubbish again, and cry again, and wonder where you went so wrong.

Then finally, out of nowhere, a nurse asks if she has a tongue tie. You respond that someone mentioned she did in the hospital, but that it was unlikely to be a problem. But this nurse insists that you get a second opinion. So, at your wits end, you do. You find out that she does have a tongue tie, that it is definitely a problem, and then you get it cut and everything changes.

But by now, your milk is all but gone. You are feeding her formula for almost every feed.
And you really have given all you can give.

But you go to a breastfeeding support group, and get one last burst of motivation. You find a recipe for lactation cookies to try and relactate. You start pumping every two hours again to boost your supply. You take fenugreek tablets to help the milk come back. But this is has to be the last attempt.

If this doesn't work, this really has to be the end.

And so, for a week you flip-flop hourly between definitely stopping, and then trying to relactate again. You can't figure out why you feel so miserable and guilty and sad about it all, when you actually desperately want to stop and feel good about it. You imagine that everyone is thinking badly of you, and you tell yourself you have to keep trying.

And all this, because of the start in the hospital. Because the midwives and medias breastfeeding propaganda has well and truly worked on you. Because even though you are in an impossible situation, you still wont give yourself a break.

So you give it one, last, go. If it doesn't work by this Friday, you are going to go and buy a new non-maternity bra. And you are going to leave the breast feeding journey behind you.

Comfort Eating In The Car

This is the story of how I came to be comfort eating in my car while it's parked in my driveway, with Baby asleep in her carseat.

The term 'comfort eating' is perhaps an understatement. Comfort sounds nice. Comfort implies cuddly and warm, happiness and a kind of homely beauty. This was none of those things.

This was ugly.
This redefined comfort eating. Into ugly, ugly eating.

But let me start at the beginning.

Two days ago I was at struggling to bottle feed the Little Bean at my plunket parents education group while the nurse was attempting to answer my question 'why won't my baby suck on the pacifier' above the screams of the Bean's fussing. The nurse looked at me and asked in return, "does your baby have a tongue tie, because the way she's feeding right now, is a classic tongue tie symptom."
I shrugged, "the Lactation Consultants at the hospital said she had a small one, but that it was nothing to worry about," to which the entire room of mums spontaneously shook their heads and words of 'second opinions' and 'they said that for me' and 'always brushing them off' circulated around me.

As the nurse went on to talk about the need for us to be advocates for our babies, I quickly fell into a haze of bad mummy guilt. All this time I'd thought I was doing something wrong, that Baby Bean was rejecting me, that we were using the wrong kind of bottle teats, that we were suffering through nursing strikes, and fussiness, early weaning or gas. I'd been frustrated at her for always pulling away after 3 sucks of breast or bottle, and when I'd asked the community care nurse about it, she had said 'when she's hungry enough, she'll eat, don't give her a bottle'. I followed that advice for 3 whole hours. I had been worried that her weight was no longer keeping up with her height, but had no idea how to feed her more because all feedings had become a nightmare of fussing, lip smacking and an inability to suck properly. I'd been angry with her, I'd told her to shush, I'd told her to quiet down and focus. I'd tried to remain calm when inside I was screaming at her. We'd almost become completely formula fed because of the stress of it all and I felt angry and helpless and sad.

But now there was potentially a reason, and one that had a simple solution. The idea of it was too much to bear and I cried all the way home, whereupon I instantly emailed my LC and begged her to help us.

The next day I drove to the drop in clinic and convinced a doctor (who had to google tongue tie in front of me) that I needed a referral, which he gave me, and after a cancellation at the referred doctor, we had an appointment for the very next day!

SUCCESS!

So, feeling like less of a horrible mum, I drove my Baby to the ENT Specialist, feeling apprehensive and hopeful in equal measures, blissfully unaware of the horror of which I was about to be a part.

After a short introduction, interview and examination, the (clearly fairly wealthy judging by the photos of immaculate private schooled kids on his dustless shelf) specialist agreed that Little Bean had quite a bad tongue tie, given that she was unable to touch the roof of her mouth, or extend her tongue beyond her gum-line. He offered me three options:

1. Go on the public waiting list. They can cut the tie for free, but you will wait up to 10 weeks.
2. Go private and have her put under general anaesthetic for the procedure which will cost upwards of $1500.
3. Give her a local anaesthetic now, and snip!

I chose the third door. 

It began with a numbing spray, which was fine, but not great. Apparently it tasted very bad, and meant she stopped being able to deal with saliva. It sounded a bit like she might be drowning.

Then I was instructed to place one hand around her body to hold her arms in place, and hold her head still with the other hand.
I honestly felt like we were going to torture her, and my anxiety was through the roof. I turned my head to look at the super fancy clock on the wall, but that didn't save me from the sound of her choking on or spit, or the sound of the scissors. It definitely did not save me from the supernatural scream which came right after.

My poor Baby Bean looked like a tiny baby vampire who had been stopped mid-feed.

There was blood pooling in her mouth, and dribbling down her chin, and no matter what I did, for what seemed like an age - but was really only 5 minutes - she was screaming at a volume I can definitely say I have never heard come from those lungs ever before.

For those moments, I was convinced that I was the mother from hell.

And that is how I came to be here, classily eating an unholy portion of KFC in my car. Which is parked in my driveway. While Baby Bean sleeps in the back seat.

Because the minute we got in the car and drove away, she fell asleep, and I fell apart.

But fear not, dear reader, this story has a happy ending. She has been super happy all afternoon, and even starting to make some interesting new sounds. Not only that, but we've had three fuss free feeds since coming home! But how crazy is it, that if I hadn't signed up for that parenting course in a bid to meet some other mums, then perhaps we may never have realised that all these issues could be fixed so quickly. Fingers crossed that things get a bit easier now.

It Takes a Village

Firstly, I am not writing this post to garner sympathy from my friends and family. I have not decided to write this to look strong, or weak, or to impress on anyone that I need praise or encouragement.  I am not writing this as a way of asking for help without actually asking. When I need help, I do ask. I am simply writing this because that's what I need to do. I am writing this because I know that I am not the only mother out there feeling like this, and putting my thoughts and feelings into words is how I process things. It makes the world clearer for me and it makes me calm.

Secondly, this post is likely to be a little Too-Much-Info for some readers, particularly if you know me, are male, or are made uncomfortable by people being too open about physical things.

So, probably that is all of you. 

Finally, this post is long. But I make no apologies. 

If you are still reading, then consider yourself warned. I'm no longer embarrassed about this stuff, so if you are, and you meet me, then you will feel awkward, but I won't care less.

It Takes a Village

When you have a baby, you very quickly get over being embarrassed or conservative about many things. The words breasts, nipples and poo suddenly become as frequently used as the words coffee, chocolate and sleep. As a breastfeeding mum, you have to get over the weirdness of pulling your boobs out anywhere and everywhere because if you didn't, you would never leave your bedroom, and neither would your baby. As a mum with a new baby, you find yourself being asked by perfect strangers about breastfeeding. Are you breastfeeding? How's it going? Why are you doing/not doing A/B/C? As though it is somehow their business, and it isn't weird to be discussing your nipples with your hairdresser. And if, like me, anything is out of the normal, then be prepared to explain it to everyone.

I am having to use nipple shields to feed my baby. Now to me, the fact that I am breastfeeding her at all is a miracle. I have inverted nipples - the worst my lactation consultant has ever seen apparently - and this means that there is nothing for baby to latch onto. The shields give her the ability to latch, and therefore the ability to feed. Getting this going was a mission and I almost gave up completely at week 2, 3 and 6.  In fact, a number of midwives, psychologists and even my lactation consultant actually suggested that perhaps I should consider switching to formula to avoid becoming incredibly overwhelmed and depressed. However, I am notoriously stubborn. If my mum could do it, so could I. By week 7, I went for 24 hours without using a bottle of formula, expressed milk or pumping and I was absolutely elated! 

Since then I've been relatively successful, only feeding her formula a handful of times when she was out with her Dad, or on the one night that I went out with my friends. Success! I am incredibly proud of this achievement, as I was convinced it was going to be impossible for me to breastfeed at all, yet here I am. Of course, whenever I pull out the shields, everyone wants to know why. So the secret shame I harboured for most of my life, is now known to all and sundry. 

Which is why, as I am now forced to consider mixed feeding in order to regain my sanity, I am feeling incredibly, overwhelmingly conflicted.

Last night I lost it.
I had a complete meltdown. I felt so angry and so frustrated and at my wits end in every sense of the word. I couldn't think straight, I could barely see straight. After 11 weeks of being woken every 1-3 hours for feeding, I'm finally wondering if all those people weren't right from the start. Clearly I am not able to hack the sleep deprivation that goes hand in hand with exclusively breastfeeding. I am angry with my husband for being able to go to work, for going for an hour run once a week, for not being able to find the debit card which was in my bag, for letting her fall asleep on him every night, even though I do that during the day, for not being home with me during the day to help me. I can see how people get the point of wanting to shake their babies, as though that is somehow going to snap them into consciousness and make them realise that if they just went to sleep, everything would be easier.

Which of course, is ridiculous.
She's just 11 weeks old. She is only crying because she is so overtired she can't fall asleep anymore. And he needs to go to work, otherwise we wouldn't be able to afford to live, eat or do anything remotely fun. His runs aren't a way for him to make me feel more isolated, they are helping keep him sane. Which is a good thing. At least one of us needs to be.

I know that all I need to do is say the word, and I too could go have some time to myself. Only, at the moment I feel that this is impossible because I am exclusively breastfeeding. I can't leave her in case she gets hungry, I can't have a few hours in the afternoon or evening where I go out because if she has a bottle of formula, it will mess up my supply.

And so here I am, considering mixed feeding and feeling guilty about it because 'breast is best', and 'formula isn't natural' and 'why aren't you breast feeding your baby?'
But what about 'happy wife, happy life', and 'baby needs a coherent mum' and 'don't be a mombie' and 'sleep deprivation is your biggest trigger for depression'?

It takes a village to raise a child. Baby A deserves to have a mum who isn't crying constantly, or wanting to hit her father, or feeling hard done by and exhausted. She deserves to feel loved, to be happy and see happy. I can't do that alone. If giving her a bottle of formula once or twice a day and sharing the feeds so that I can get an hour more sleep is what it takes to remain sane, how is that any worse than her Dad spending 2 hours less time with her so that he can go for a run maintain his sanity?

It takes a village to keep the parents sane. To give them time to find themselves again, to spend time together, and to exit the baby haze once in a while. It takes a village to look out for them and make sure they are ok. Last night J rang me at 10pm after I text her saying I wanted to walk out. It took 20 minutes, but she managed to calm me down enough to want to apologise to my husband. This morning, A has come round after reading the text I sent her last night, to help me get some rest and to vent a bit. She is currently in the nursery trying to settle Baby A for the third time. In the weekend my whole family arrived out of nowhere, and suddenly my house was clean, and I was able to go get my hair done and have some down time. My parents even left dinner in the fridge so we didn't have to cook that night. I only wish we lived closer to some family so that we could remain saner for longer.
I guess I have to work at building my own village family in order to make up for the fact that we live so far from our real ones. And this pressure on mums about breast feeding needs to end. Yes, it's wonderful and it is the best food for baby, but the mum's need looking after too. It takes a village to remind a Mum to do that. And all too often, in this age of being constantly connected, we are left alone.