My Breastfeeding Bust: Failing at Feeding

After Sam's nursing strike (which was the worst. If you think your babe might be striking read up here) my milk never recovered and it wasn't in that great of a place to begin with.

Before we left the hospital after Sam's birth, Sam had lost an entire pound. The doctors weren't worried, or so they said, but they kept talking about it every time they came into our room. It made me a little crazy. We popped open one of the little two ounce formula bottles that they give you to take home and fed it to our little boy. He sucked it down, happy enough, and spit it back up, happy enough. Two ounces was just too much fluid for his tiny tummy. The nurses tried to tell me that everything would be fine; Sam's latch looked good and he was doing a good job nursing, but the damage had been done. I was paranoid.

Once Little Hak was about two weeks old, we had made it through our first growth spurt, my nipples weren't killing me every time he latched and we were rarely supplementing with formula. But Sam's weight was still really slow and we were going to the pediatrician for weight checks and lactation consults. And thus began my dependence on my Medela. I was pumping after I nursed and if I woke up early enough in the morning, I would pump before the boys woke up. I even kept my manual pump handy in the night so that I could pump, quietly, after Sam's midnight meals.

Just as things were really looking up for us, David and I had to rush to the emergency room because I had a crazy pain in my back that made no sense. Blood clots, as it turned out. I was admitted to the hospital and I was there for three days. David would bring Sam to the hospital during the day and I would pump every three hours he wasn't there with me; we cuddled in my bed skin to skin, but there was a definite dip in my output. Once I got discharged and back home, things began to perk up a little, but two weeks later, I was back in the hospital with clots again, bigger and more of 'em. I cried each time I pumped because of how pathetic my pumping output was. By the time I had pumped three times, i had just enough to make a meal for Sam, and at that point he was only eating four ounces at a time.

From then on, we had to supplement every day, three or four ounces. Then the move. Sam went on nursing strike. I was too busy to pump like I needed to, even though I was pumping for four hours every day. I couldn't keep up. After the strike ended the best we did was about half breast milk, half formula, but we didn't do our best very often. And I was trying everything. Oatmeal, brewer's yeast, flax seed, More Milk Plus, Milky, tea, pumping as often as possible, and nursing as much as I could. I couldn't pump more than two ounces at a time even when Sam hadn't nursed and I felt sore.

So here we are, two months later, and I have finally thrown in the towel. Well, I'm trying to throw it in. I tried to pack up my pump yesterday and I was just overwhelmed with sad. I even cried. So I brought it back out and pumped out a measly quarter ounce. I find that I am having a very difficult time letting go of this.

I think it's an identity problem. While I was still pregnant, I was really looking forward to a natural birth, the pain and all. I was excited about it. I felt intrinsically connected to some deep well of womanhood as I prepared for my son's birth. But I had a c-section. I felt a little cheated. More on that later. But as a nursing mother, I found that connection. I was nurturing my child like some kind of bra-less, wild Mother Gaea.  But I haven't been able to do that either. None of this is to say that I am ungrateful for the age we live in with safe surgery and good nutrition for my child despite my body's failings, but it does feel like a failing. It does feel like I'm not woman enough for my Sam.

I don't know. I don't feel shamed by other moms or whatever for choosing formula, but I feel a deep, sad jealousy. Sam holds onto his bottle and eats, happy as can be, and I'm jealous of it. It's like when David was dating other girls, I was devastated, but under that I was just hoping that he would be happy. I felt like that with Sam's bottle. Then I immediately felt like a crazy person.

I guess at the end of the day, I'm glad he's happy and healthy, but still...

Any moms out there who have felt this way? Or am I just a crazy person? Any tips for getting over the breast milk blues, as I will henceforth call this?