Simply the breast
Simply the breast.
For me, breast feeding was awful.
There, I said it.
I knew that I wanted to breast feed, but I always worried I would struggle. I would struggle with not knowing how many ounces they had taken, if they were full, if they were satisfied, if they were really getting any. I was told you'd know in a week if they were feeding as if not, they'd lose weight. For me, this was too scary, too stressful and I felt too overwhelmed with fear that I would get it wrong. It was out of my control and, when my life felt upside down, me knowing exactly how much she had taken was the control I needed in order to function.
I was very lucky, I had a solid support circle around me, a mixture of some that had bottle fed and some who had breast fed - so I can't blame me feeling forced into it on any external pressure; it was all me.
I wanted both my girls to latch on and be fulfilled with what I could give them, I wanted to do what nature had designed my body to do. Or did I want to live upto the pressure of what society thought I should do? Either way, I couldn't do it. And they couldn't latch. My first labour progressively became more and more traumatic which resulted in me needing emergency blood transfusions, this meant that my milk was all over the place and she just didn't seem to be able to latch on. After five days of excruciating post labour pain and from persistently trying, we realised that she had a tongue tie - hence her difficulty in latching.
Oh, the guilt. Why didn't I recognise it? How could I not notice as her mum? I told myself I was failing and she wasn't even a week old! I cried and cried and tried and tried, but i just couldn't do it.
One particular low point was the night my husband and sister (yes - a tag team effort) desperately tried to get the colostrum out of me before we ran out of time and had to give her formula (heaven forbid?!) I lay full of canulers and drips feeling utterly dreadful, exposed and like a complete and utter failure. But still, I carried on. Told myself that even if she had the 'liquid gold' then that would be enough. But it wasn't. I needed to give her more. I needed to try harder.
On my return home after eight days in hospital, it's fair to say I was a wreck. My sister met me at home and brought with her an emergency supply of formula as I was still struggling. She suggested (very delicately) that I try the baby with a bottle while I recovered and slept a little. I cried with relief, it was as though someome else suggesting it gave me the permission to stop without me feeling the guilt or shame. For a little while anyway.
Despite all of this, and promising myself that if it didn't work out with my second, like it hadn't with my first, then I would stop and switch to formula without a moment's hesistation. I would do it without seeking people's approval and without the guilt. I convinced myself that I wanted to try to breast feed with my second rather than I had to, I didn't. I wanted what was best for her and had been told (again and again) that this was it. However, the fact that I wasn't particularly looking forward to this made me feel truly sad. I wanted more than anything to be that mum, the one who makes it look so easy, so natural, but for me, on both occasions - it just didn't happen.
I've known and spoken to a few mums who make it look so easy, so natural and I've learnt that it's far from easy for them too. I've been there, as a friend, as a sister, helping hold their boob while the baby desperately attempts to latch on, or helped to dry the leaking milk as it sinks into their top, I can categorically say that it's far from easy. They, too, had the worries, the concerns, the anxiety the hiccups, but they managed to do it. They were better mums, stronger, and, on a particularly low day, I felt that they must love their baby more than I loved mine.
I would find myself explaining why my baby was bottle fed, primarily to anyone that would listen: to the other mums in baby groups, to the women with the raised eyebrows, to my best friends, to the shop assistant in Mothercare, to my neighbour walking his dog (okay, maybe not to him - but i would have haven't had the chance!) The point is, not one of those people (apart from Mrs. Raised Eyebrows - we all know one!) cared one iota if my baby was breast, bottle or fed with a catapult, it was me: it was my issue, my guilt.
And why?
Statistics and research says that we have the lowest number of breast fed babies in Europe and while I'm not about to delve deeper (I don't want to form an opinion on something that I'm not yet completely fluent in), I do wonder, why? I can't fault the care or support I was shown by my hospital but separately, the discussion and comments around my feeding experience was far from positive. As a mum of two being so exhausted, so anxious, so sleep deprived and barley conscious, the pressure and guilt that I should be sitting up, should be getting more milk, should be doing better was unhelpful and a contributing factor to my anxiety and PND.
I've felt for the mums who chose to bottle feed and have been met with a disapproving look, a sigh, a comment. I've admired their courage when simply stating, no, it wasn't for them. I've noticed (none in my circle - thank goodness) the sense of superiority from those who do breast feed as though they are working harder, deserve more credit than those who bottle fed. There shouldn't be a divide, a separation or a parental ranking when it comes to motherhood. We are all doing our best.
For me, I did want to try and I did want it to work. I wanted to say that I have tried and I had given it my all, but why? In the grand scheme of things, my daughters won't grow up feeling any less loved or special so why the angst?
My friends would agree, I've continuously questioned and beat myself up that it's my fault they have had a cough, a cold, a chest infection. It's because I didn't breast feed for long enough. Because I didn't try hard enough. And who knows, it could well be. But what I'm finally okay with saying and accepting, is this: I did my best, my absolute best.
At the time, when they were both so little, I made a choice to do what kept me sane and kept my head above water to ensure that the first few months of both of their lives I could give them my everything and look after them both properly. And I did.
And for that, I'm proud.
Bottle or Breast - a well fed baby is what's best.
For me, breast feeding was awful.
There, I said it.
I knew that I wanted to breast feed, but I always worried I would struggle. I would struggle with not knowing how many ounces they had taken, if they were full, if they were satisfied, if they were really getting any. I was told you'd know in a week if they were feeding as if not, they'd lose weight. For me, this was too scary, too stressful and I felt too overwhelmed with fear that I would get it wrong. It was out of my control and, when my life felt upside down, me knowing exactly how much she had taken was the control I needed in order to function.
I was very lucky, I had a solid support circle around me, a mixture of some that had bottle fed and some who had breast fed - so I can't blame me feeling forced into it on any external pressure; it was all me.
I wanted both my girls to latch on and be fulfilled with what I could give them, I wanted to do what nature had designed my body to do. Or did I want to live upto the pressure of what society thought I should do? Either way, I couldn't do it. And they couldn't latch. My first labour progressively became more and more traumatic which resulted in me needing emergency blood transfusions, this meant that my milk was all over the place and she just didn't seem to be able to latch on. After five days of excruciating post labour pain and from persistently trying, we realised that she had a tongue tie - hence her difficulty in latching.
Oh, the guilt. Why didn't I recognise it? How could I not notice as her mum? I told myself I was failing and she wasn't even a week old! I cried and cried and tried and tried, but i just couldn't do it.
One particular low point was the night my husband and sister (yes - a tag team effort) desperately tried to get the colostrum out of me before we ran out of time and had to give her formula (heaven forbid?!) I lay full of canulers and drips feeling utterly dreadful, exposed and like a complete and utter failure. But still, I carried on. Told myself that even if she had the 'liquid gold' then that would be enough. But it wasn't. I needed to give her more. I needed to try harder.
On my return home after eight days in hospital, it's fair to say I was a wreck. My sister met me at home and brought with her an emergency supply of formula as I was still struggling. She suggested (very delicately) that I try the baby with a bottle while I recovered and slept a little. I cried with relief, it was as though someome else suggesting it gave me the permission to stop without me feeling the guilt or shame. For a little while anyway.
Despite all of this, and promising myself that if it didn't work out with my second, like it hadn't with my first, then I would stop and switch to formula without a moment's hesistation. I would do it without seeking people's approval and without the guilt. I convinced myself that I wanted to try to breast feed with my second rather than I had to, I didn't. I wanted what was best for her and had been told (again and again) that this was it. However, the fact that I wasn't particularly looking forward to this made me feel truly sad. I wanted more than anything to be that mum, the one who makes it look so easy, so natural, but for me, on both occasions - it just didn't happen.
I've known and spoken to a few mums who make it look so easy, so natural and I've learnt that it's far from easy for them too. I've been there, as a friend, as a sister, helping hold their boob while the baby desperately attempts to latch on, or helped to dry the leaking milk as it sinks into their top, I can categorically say that it's far from easy. They, too, had the worries, the concerns, the anxiety the hiccups, but they managed to do it. They were better mums, stronger, and, on a particularly low day, I felt that they must love their baby more than I loved mine.
I would find myself explaining why my baby was bottle fed, primarily to anyone that would listen: to the other mums in baby groups, to the women with the raised eyebrows, to my best friends, to the shop assistant in Mothercare, to my neighbour walking his dog (okay, maybe not to him - but i would have haven't had the chance!) The point is, not one of those people (apart from Mrs. Raised Eyebrows - we all know one!) cared one iota if my baby was breast, bottle or fed with a catapult, it was me: it was my issue, my guilt.
And why?
Statistics and research says that we have the lowest number of breast fed babies in Europe and while I'm not about to delve deeper (I don't want to form an opinion on something that I'm not yet completely fluent in), I do wonder, why? I can't fault the care or support I was shown by my hospital but separately, the discussion and comments around my feeding experience was far from positive. As a mum of two being so exhausted, so anxious, so sleep deprived and barley conscious, the pressure and guilt that I should be sitting up, should be getting more milk, should be doing better was unhelpful and a contributing factor to my anxiety and PND.
I've felt for the mums who chose to bottle feed and have been met with a disapproving look, a sigh, a comment. I've admired their courage when simply stating, no, it wasn't for them. I've noticed (none in my circle - thank goodness) the sense of superiority from those who do breast feed as though they are working harder, deserve more credit than those who bottle fed. There shouldn't be a divide, a separation or a parental ranking when it comes to motherhood. We are all doing our best.
For me, I did want to try and I did want it to work. I wanted to say that I have tried and I had given it my all, but why? In the grand scheme of things, my daughters won't grow up feeling any less loved or special so why the angst?
My friends would agree, I've continuously questioned and beat myself up that it's my fault they have had a cough, a cold, a chest infection. It's because I didn't breast feed for long enough. Because I didn't try hard enough. And who knows, it could well be. But what I'm finally okay with saying and accepting, is this: I did my best, my absolute best.
At the time, when they were both so little, I made a choice to do what kept me sane and kept my head above water to ensure that the first few months of both of their lives I could give them my everything and look after them both properly. And I did.
And for that, I'm proud.
Bottle or Breast - a well fed baby is what's best.
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