I tried... I really, really tried...
Annabeth, I tried. I really, really tried. I didn't think it would be hard, you know. I thought it would just come naturally. That's what I kept hearing. That's what they told me in the class. When I checked into the hospital, they asked if I planned on breastfeeding or bottle feeding. Of course I planned on breastfeeding. I answered so confidently and was so assured that it was the only method I would be relying on for at least 6 months. That's what all the experts said was best. The government, too. "Breast is best! Breast is best!" So I had purchased all the supplies with plans of stockpiling the "liquid gold" in our freezer. In fact, I cleaned the whole thing out a few weeks before your arrival so there would be sufficient room. I had dreams that maybe I'd have so much success that I could keep you off of the "f-word" (as it was disdainfully referred to in the breastfeeding class I attended) permanently. If done right, my body would produce enough that you'd never hunger. You'd never want or need more than what I could give you. And by the third day of our hospital say, and your one millionth weigh in, you had your first bottle of donor milk... from someone else.
I tried from the start. From the first few minutes you entered into this world, I really did my best based off of what I knew. Here's the thing about the age of information, Annabeth. It's easy to know too much. To overload yourself with information. But I refused to do that. Maybe I should have, but I trusted that just as God had so brilliantly formed you in my womb, my body would work effortlessly just as He designed. That I wouldn't need all of that knowledge. I would operate off of instinct. By gosh, if animals can do it, I can, too. But you kept losing weight. I guess there wasn't enough for you. You'd wake and cry and your dad would hand you to me as I did my best to nourish you. Your little mouth would latch, your little eyes would close, and just as quickly as eating began, sleeping would follow. I'd tickle your feet, rub your little cheeks, talk to you, and do all that I could to wake you to eat. But like me, I guess you prefer sleeping over eating, and so a bottle was introduced. "We'll do both," I thought. It'll be fine. After all, keeping you alive was the goal.
You lost so much weight that they threatened to keep you in the hospital. "If she loses another half of an ounce, we'll have to readmit her." So we prayed you wouldn't and that we could go home. Four pounds and 15 ounces, and we were so grateful that we bought a car seat with a 4 pound minimum so we could get you there. Surely, in our own setting, we'd do better. We'd be relaxed, uninterrupted, and we could work this thing out. But the struggling commenced. I'd nurse you for what seemed like an eternity, hoping that you really were eating versus sleeping, and within an hour, you were crying for more. We went back for the determining weigh in and you had gained one ounce. I wanted to cry my eyes out but I refused. I wasn't going to let this defeat me although I felt like I had worked so hard for such a small gain. But it wasn't a loss and that was worth celebrating. We knew that meant you needed more. More of something I clearly didn't have.
We cracked open our first bottle of formula and I told your dad it would just be temporary until we could get you back to your birth weight. Babies usually get there within 10-14 days the sources say. But I didn't plan on you needing anything more than me. I hoped I could do. Three difficult weeks later, you had finally made it. You had exceeded your birth weight and added 3 ounces. I felt so proud. Proud that you were growing. Proud that you were thriving, and even though I was still trying my hardest, I knew your success was thanks to the formula. The powder and water were helping you survive.
We changed our game plan a bit to pack on the pounds, and in my ignorance, I made what I thought was the best decision for you. I didn't realized it wouldn't play out well for the both of us. You started at a deficit, little one, and we needed to make up for lost time. I wish you could have cooked for 3 more weeks and entered into this world at a healthy 7 or 8 pounds, but that wasn't our reality, and that's okay. You were still perfect, just small and sleepy. Your tiny mouth, with your big full lips, quickly latched on to any food source and I was at least thankful for that. I've heard some babies don't transition back and forth, but you can do so effortlessly. You are one of the most agreeable, versatile babies I know, and I was glad for that. Glad that we didn't have to both deal with the frustration of me not being enough so that you could have a full tummy. But I woke up one morning with the full intention of trying to feed you on my own, and there was hardly anything. I began to panic as I pulled out my trusty pump just to see if maybe I was wrong. But I was right and fear set in. Fear that it was over. That our time was cut to short. That there wasn't anything I could do to make up for lost time. And so I got on the internet and began researching.
"It's okay," some articles said. "You're not too far gone. You're not past the point of no return. Try these things and you'll see a significant turn around." There were these cookies, this tea, more pumping, more nursing. Don't give up. Keep pushing. But my one measly ounce on a good day didn't compare to your growing need of multiple ounces every single time you ate. I had hope that these attempts would get me there in a few short weeks. Sewing in great effort should reap the desired return.
I would read testimonies after testimonies by mothers who have all the luck. Testimonies that said things like, "I did this and my supply doubled.... tripled... there was so much it was coming out of my nose. (Okay, I made that last one up.)" Some moms said, "Looky here, I haven't even HAD my baby and this body is churning out milk like a factory." So why wasn't it working for me? Why didn't I get the same outcome? I was drinking my weight in water, eating myself back into my maternity pants with lactation cookies, trying to keep my caloric intake up, pumping every chance I could get, drinking "magical" tea, and letting you nurse for hours when you wanted to. Yet after every session, your little hand would find its way back up to your mouth, signaling you were still hungry, and you'd consume just as much formula as you would have without my efforts.
I decided to stop. I decided that my body and my mental wellness couldn't take much more because it was disappointment after disappointment. My great hopes had been smashed. The freezer didn't need to be cleaned out. I didn't need to purchase all of those storage bags. I know you don't mind and that you're not holding it against me. You seem to enjoy eating from a bottle just fine as you stare into my eyes and grab my hands with your tiny fingers, so I don't think you're upset by it one bit. But it's hard, Annabeth. It's hard to hear stories of moms' whose bodies are like the Promised Land, flowing with milk. To know that their bodies are able to meet the needs of their children and mine has failed. That I have failed. That maybe I could have done more, done better, but now we're relying on a box to feed you. Yet as I have prayed and asked God to change my circumstances so I can provide what you need, I realize that I'm doing exactly that. Because what you need is to eat. You need food. And more than that, you need a mom who loves you so dearly that she'll do whatever it takes to make sure you've got what you need. Even if that means judgmental glances from others. Even if means she has to sacrifice her own pride to do so. Even if that means doing it another way, differently than planned. Because as you and I both know, life rarely goes as planned, and so we have to learn how to navigate the bumps and curves that we didn't anticipate coming our way.
I sat in church yesterday rocking your carrier as you quietly entertained yourself during the service by staring at the lights. Towards the end, you started chewing on your hands and I knew I had about 60 seconds to get something in your mouth before you began letting everyone know how hungry you were. I reached into your bag, pulled out a bottle of water, and as I emptied the powder into it and shook it up, I wondered what the mother behind me thought. I doubt she even noticed, and I am certain that she didn't care, but I still wondered if she was shocked that I was feeding my tiny baby formula rather than running out of the room looking for a place to privately nurse. I wondered if she thought that I'm a bad mom and that clearly I don't want what's best for you. But I think your frequently kissed, chubby little cheeks and your extra little chin tell a different story, don't you?
I would do anything for you, Annabeth. I would go to any length to make sure your every need is met. I would do without so you could have. I would gladly give up so that you don't have to. And just as God has used you to teach me many things, I am learning that sometimes doing what's best looks different than what we imagined. That we can't live our lives operating off of the opinions of others. And that sometimes things just don't work out as we hoped, but crying about it and mourning over it does nothing more than make us feel worse. We can't play the blame game forever, we can't keep asking "what if," we shouldn't compare, and in all things, we should be grateful. I'm so grateful for you. For the fact that if my body can't provide what you need, our bank account can. I'm grateful for the genius people at Similac who found a way to make formula. I'm grateful that you drink from a bottle and tolerate formula like a champ. I'm especially grateful for the 8 weeks that we've had thus far because I know our infrequent sessions are coming to an end. I do love the fact that our family can share in the joy of feeding you and that at night, your dad can help me out. For as many "cons" as I have read to our method, I'm finding that there are just as many "pros." Most of all, I'm grateful that you are my child and that my love for you is not proven off of one particular method of feeding you. I would hope that my 24/7 care of you would be more of a testimony. Because as long as you feel loved, and know that you are, then I've succeeded.
I tried from the start. From the first few minutes you entered into this world, I really did my best based off of what I knew. Here's the thing about the age of information, Annabeth. It's easy to know too much. To overload yourself with information. But I refused to do that. Maybe I should have, but I trusted that just as God had so brilliantly formed you in my womb, my body would work effortlessly just as He designed. That I wouldn't need all of that knowledge. I would operate off of instinct. By gosh, if animals can do it, I can, too. But you kept losing weight. I guess there wasn't enough for you. You'd wake and cry and your dad would hand you to me as I did my best to nourish you. Your little mouth would latch, your little eyes would close, and just as quickly as eating began, sleeping would follow. I'd tickle your feet, rub your little cheeks, talk to you, and do all that I could to wake you to eat. But like me, I guess you prefer sleeping over eating, and so a bottle was introduced. "We'll do both," I thought. It'll be fine. After all, keeping you alive was the goal.
You lost so much weight that they threatened to keep you in the hospital. "If she loses another half of an ounce, we'll have to readmit her." So we prayed you wouldn't and that we could go home. Four pounds and 15 ounces, and we were so grateful that we bought a car seat with a 4 pound minimum so we could get you there. Surely, in our own setting, we'd do better. We'd be relaxed, uninterrupted, and we could work this thing out. But the struggling commenced. I'd nurse you for what seemed like an eternity, hoping that you really were eating versus sleeping, and within an hour, you were crying for more. We went back for the determining weigh in and you had gained one ounce. I wanted to cry my eyes out but I refused. I wasn't going to let this defeat me although I felt like I had worked so hard for such a small gain. But it wasn't a loss and that was worth celebrating. We knew that meant you needed more. More of something I clearly didn't have.
We cracked open our first bottle of formula and I told your dad it would just be temporary until we could get you back to your birth weight. Babies usually get there within 10-14 days the sources say. But I didn't plan on you needing anything more than me. I hoped I could do. Three difficult weeks later, you had finally made it. You had exceeded your birth weight and added 3 ounces. I felt so proud. Proud that you were growing. Proud that you were thriving, and even though I was still trying my hardest, I knew your success was thanks to the formula. The powder and water were helping you survive.
We changed our game plan a bit to pack on the pounds, and in my ignorance, I made what I thought was the best decision for you. I didn't realized it wouldn't play out well for the both of us. You started at a deficit, little one, and we needed to make up for lost time. I wish you could have cooked for 3 more weeks and entered into this world at a healthy 7 or 8 pounds, but that wasn't our reality, and that's okay. You were still perfect, just small and sleepy. Your tiny mouth, with your big full lips, quickly latched on to any food source and I was at least thankful for that. I've heard some babies don't transition back and forth, but you can do so effortlessly. You are one of the most agreeable, versatile babies I know, and I was glad for that. Glad that we didn't have to both deal with the frustration of me not being enough so that you could have a full tummy. But I woke up one morning with the full intention of trying to feed you on my own, and there was hardly anything. I began to panic as I pulled out my trusty pump just to see if maybe I was wrong. But I was right and fear set in. Fear that it was over. That our time was cut to short. That there wasn't anything I could do to make up for lost time. And so I got on the internet and began researching.
"It's okay," some articles said. "You're not too far gone. You're not past the point of no return. Try these things and you'll see a significant turn around." There were these cookies, this tea, more pumping, more nursing. Don't give up. Keep pushing. But my one measly ounce on a good day didn't compare to your growing need of multiple ounces every single time you ate. I had hope that these attempts would get me there in a few short weeks. Sewing in great effort should reap the desired return.
I would read testimonies after testimonies by mothers who have all the luck. Testimonies that said things like, "I did this and my supply doubled.... tripled... there was so much it was coming out of my nose. (Okay, I made that last one up.)" Some moms said, "Looky here, I haven't even HAD my baby and this body is churning out milk like a factory." So why wasn't it working for me? Why didn't I get the same outcome? I was drinking my weight in water, eating myself back into my maternity pants with lactation cookies, trying to keep my caloric intake up, pumping every chance I could get, drinking "magical" tea, and letting you nurse for hours when you wanted to. Yet after every session, your little hand would find its way back up to your mouth, signaling you were still hungry, and you'd consume just as much formula as you would have without my efforts.
I decided to stop. I decided that my body and my mental wellness couldn't take much more because it was disappointment after disappointment. My great hopes had been smashed. The freezer didn't need to be cleaned out. I didn't need to purchase all of those storage bags. I know you don't mind and that you're not holding it against me. You seem to enjoy eating from a bottle just fine as you stare into my eyes and grab my hands with your tiny fingers, so I don't think you're upset by it one bit. But it's hard, Annabeth. It's hard to hear stories of moms' whose bodies are like the Promised Land, flowing with milk. To know that their bodies are able to meet the needs of their children and mine has failed. That I have failed. That maybe I could have done more, done better, but now we're relying on a box to feed you. Yet as I have prayed and asked God to change my circumstances so I can provide what you need, I realize that I'm doing exactly that. Because what you need is to eat. You need food. And more than that, you need a mom who loves you so dearly that she'll do whatever it takes to make sure you've got what you need. Even if that means judgmental glances from others. Even if means she has to sacrifice her own pride to do so. Even if that means doing it another way, differently than planned. Because as you and I both know, life rarely goes as planned, and so we have to learn how to navigate the bumps and curves that we didn't anticipate coming our way.
I sat in church yesterday rocking your carrier as you quietly entertained yourself during the service by staring at the lights. Towards the end, you started chewing on your hands and I knew I had about 60 seconds to get something in your mouth before you began letting everyone know how hungry you were. I reached into your bag, pulled out a bottle of water, and as I emptied the powder into it and shook it up, I wondered what the mother behind me thought. I doubt she even noticed, and I am certain that she didn't care, but I still wondered if she was shocked that I was feeding my tiny baby formula rather than running out of the room looking for a place to privately nurse. I wondered if she thought that I'm a bad mom and that clearly I don't want what's best for you. But I think your frequently kissed, chubby little cheeks and your extra little chin tell a different story, don't you?
I would do anything for you, Annabeth. I would go to any length to make sure your every need is met. I would do without so you could have. I would gladly give up so that you don't have to. And just as God has used you to teach me many things, I am learning that sometimes doing what's best looks different than what we imagined. That we can't live our lives operating off of the opinions of others. And that sometimes things just don't work out as we hoped, but crying about it and mourning over it does nothing more than make us feel worse. We can't play the blame game forever, we can't keep asking "what if," we shouldn't compare, and in all things, we should be grateful. I'm so grateful for you. For the fact that if my body can't provide what you need, our bank account can. I'm grateful for the genius people at Similac who found a way to make formula. I'm grateful that you drink from a bottle and tolerate formula like a champ. I'm especially grateful for the 8 weeks that we've had thus far because I know our infrequent sessions are coming to an end. I do love the fact that our family can share in the joy of feeding you and that at night, your dad can help me out. For as many "cons" as I have read to our method, I'm finding that there are just as many "pros." Most of all, I'm grateful that you are my child and that my love for you is not proven off of one particular method of feeding you. I would hope that my 24/7 care of you would be more of a testimony. Because as long as you feel loved, and know that you are, then I've succeeded.
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