I know I owe you a post (or 10) about baby Clayton--his dramatic arrival into the world, his delightful (most of the time) impact on the flock, his many and marvelous baby charms. But it has been a tumultuous 4 months since his arrival, rife with the kind of breastfeeding difficulties I've only read about. I have been really busy. I have been, well, pumping.
Let me first say: I am a committed breastfeeder. Before Clayton, none of my ducks ever had a single ounce of formula in spite of my returning to work full time within three months of every hatching. (I am also a prolific milk producer). A combination of my voracious reading on the subject and a fortunate family history and culture of breastfeeding (my mom and all my aunts, my sister, my cousin, my sister in law all nursed) combined to result in a joyful nursing of all 4 little ducks for a year or more (nearly 2 for Sam & Claire). I love nursing. I love connecting with my babies in a way no one else can. I love making a choice for them that everyone from the AMA to the Catholic Church, from my mom to my doctor to the checker at the grocery store agree is absolutely the very best choice for my child (would that there was even one other mother choice out there with that sort of clarity).
Every time anyone asked, I assured them I would nurse this last baby. Beyond the usual and very occasional run ins with mastitis or sore nipples, I have had a long and happy history of relatively problem free breastfeeding. Cut to Clayton.
It started with severe nipple pain. I never bothered to visit with the lactation consultant in the hospital. Everyone (the baby's doctor, the nurses, my midwife) assured me that if anyone knew what she was doing, I did. But it hurt. Clay nursed like an indecisive baby warthog--snuffling and snorting, rearing his head and sucking furiously in between. Both nipples cracked and I grew to dread every feeding. I tried praying and singing, dancing and meditating. But the pain was nearly unbearable. I remembered some discomfort in the early weeks from my other babies. My mom, sister, and sister in law all assured me that feeding a newborn was painful so I soldiered on, never nursing in anyone else's presence because I didn't want anyone to see my grimacing and tears. But this seemed severe. I wish I had listened to myself, not tried to talk myself into believing I was just being a wimp.
Then Clayton stopped gaining weight and the mastitis started. 4 times in 12 weeks. I started having to take him in to be weighed twice a week and put the lactation consultant on speed dial. I still resisted bottles as I firmly believe that breastfeeding difficulties are solved with babies and boobs, not bottles. But still we struggled. Clayton grew bucky at the breast--unwilling to stay latched for more than a few minutes and fussy and fretful in between feedings. Turns out he was hungry and my supply was waning due to the illnesses, Clay's poor latching, and my stubborn resistance to turning to my pump to alleviate some of the difficulties.
The whole sad story culminated in the most severe case of mastitis I'd ever experienced. It started the night before Clayton's baptism with yet another night alternating between shivering and burning with fever, and lying sweating and sleepless in my bed, doggedly rising every few hours to try and feed my son. In the morning, Clay began refusing the right breast--the side swollen and fire engine red with infection. I've had mastitis at least once with all my children, and all the books say the best treatment (besides antibiotics) is nursing the baby frequently on the sore side. I've never known a baby to refuse one side altogether. But Clayton was adamant and by afternoon, we ended up dipping into my supply of stored breast milk to feed my cranky boy.
Cut to a week later, after 5 days on the antibiotic and no noticeable improvement in my health (mastitis makes you feel flu-y and awful). I pumped and discovered the milk to be grainy and off colored on the right side. My rock hard breast softened slightly after each pumping, but an egg sized lump remained, hard and painful near my right armpit. My mom, sister and I started googling and started fearing an abscess. I went to the emergency room and ended up being admitted for a 48 hour course of IV antibiotics. The surgeon (they called in a surgeon instead of an OB because they feared the lump would need to be lanced and drained) kindly made arrangements for Clayton to stay with me, though I was given strict orders not to nurse him on the right side. Over the course of the next 2 days, I burned quickly through my meager stores of frozen breast milk, and started for the first time in 5 children, turning to formula to nourish my child. I was devastated. Not because I think formula is so bad, but because this wasn't how I mothered my children. I make gazillions of mistakes and crappy choices for my babies every day but the one thing I always offered them was my milk. I cried a lot in those 2 days. I missed my other ducks. I was afraid the lump was truly an abscess which would have meant I had to stop nursing altogether. I felt sick and lonesome, although thank heavens I had my baby boy with me. He was my little life raft of cooing, smiling warmth in the cool, dim, bustling ocean of sterile hospital life. I was lucky my sister was home visiting during this stay. Between her, my mom, and my husband,I knew the other ducks were in good hands.
So, long story short, the lump was not an abcess, but just infected tissue and after 2 nights it was clear that the antibiotic was working. I still wasn't allowed to nurse on the bad side (the milk culture revealed both strep and staph in the milk), and my left side just wasn't producing enough to satisfy my growing boy. So I would nurse him as long as he was willing for each feeding, then follow up with a bottle--pumped breast milk if available, formula if not. I gave more bottles in that first week than I have ever given to all the other 4 children combined.
This all happened about 3 weeks ago. Since that time, I have been doggedly determined to get this baby back on the boob. I am pumping ever 2-3 hours and putting him to breast as often as he will. Unfortunately, I went back to work last week, so bottles are inevitable during that time. I'm providing about 90% of his needs with breast milk (although the day he took 36 ounces set me back again. Seriously--that is a moose cup of breast milk! My other kids usually took 2-3 bottles of about 4-6 ounces during my work day. This child is a whole different story!) I'm pumping 25-30 ounces a day.
All the emotional considerations aside, what I didn't realize I loved about breastfeeding was the convenience! The dishes alone are about to sink me, not to mention the hassle of figuring out how long we will be gone for every outing so I can be sure I have enough to feed Clayton, then figuring out how to keep bottles of milk the right temperature (cold until he's hungry, warm when he's ready to eat), how to keep them clean and sterile before, during and after a feeding etc. I have 5 active children--the last thing I need is a couple more things to do and try to keep clean. I have my doubts about the sterility and cleanliness of my kitchen sink and my dishes. I have much higher confidence in the cleanliness of my chest. And there is nothing more frustrating than warming up a bottle I have had to clean and keep track of, feeding my child said bottle, then heading to my pump and pumping the exact amount at the precisely perfect temperature when he is finished. Only to then wash all the attachments, the bottles, the nipples, and pack away the tubing, the electrical cord. It is so darn inefficient! It's frustrating, and I still feel this tug of sorrow knowing this baby doesn't need me quite as urgently in quite the same way as my others did. I know I am probably making more of this than I need to, but this is my last shot at this whole baby thing, and it has been a beautiful, life changing journey. I loved nursing my babies and there is a corner of sorrow in my heart that I can't rationalize away no matter how many times I tell myself to be grateful for my wonderful boy's health and good spirits, or my practical consideration that as a full time working mom, a baby who likes the bottle is a blessing. (By contrast, my other son nearly insisted on starving for 8 hours a day as he so profoundly preferred nursing). Clayton insists on bottles all day long, up to and including my beloved after work and bedtime feedings.
So I pump. I pump before I go to work and before I go to bed. I pump at work while I check my email. I pump after I put supper in the oven. I pump in the night if I awaken shortly after Clayton's last feeding. I pump when I'm reading to my other children. I pump and read book after book after book (Chad is starting to question the wisdom of buying me that Kindle). I pump in my car and in my living room and in my bedroom. I pump at my mom's house and the mother's room at work.
But here is the good news--Clayton still nurses in the night. His crib is in our room and I think we still have that sleeping connection I've read about whereby nursing mothers and their infants progress through the REM cycles at the same time--so that when Clay is most likely to wake and feed, I am also the nearest to a waking state. So as soon as I hear the telltale rustlings, I dash out of bed and sweep my baby in my arms. As we settle in my rocker and I smell the milky, sleeping scent of that fuzzy blonde head, I feel the urgent, stinging sweetness of a child seeking comfort and nourishment in the night. I crave and relish these moments, when my baby is mine, only mine, connected to me in the most intimate mother moment possible outside of the womb. It is almost like, in the dark and the night, Clayton can forget our months of struggle and just nurse, filling his belly with my abundant milk and (I sincerely hope) his heart with my abundant love for him.
A few nights ago I awoke with a prayer that these fleeting moments remain mine awhile longer. Clay had acted funny at our midnight feeding, resisting the breast like he does so determinedly during the daytime hours. I feared that he would soon abandon even these brief connections and instead demand the bottle at night as well (a nightmare of inconvenience aside fom my more sentimental concerns). But at last he latched and we settled together, eventually both dozing off in the comfort of each other's presence while the midnight hours and his fleeting, baby days ticked quietly by.
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