A little thing

When Mathilda started school, I had 28 bottles of expressed milk in the deep freeze.  Today, I have 6.

Before giving birth, I thought I would aim to nurse for 6 months.  Being admittedly unsure of myself in many ways, the least of which my ability to parent, I turned to scientific literature. (No joke, I actually dropped citations and "pub med" to my OB when discussing the increasing likelihood of my needing a c-section).  I read that there were clear benefits in breast-feeding through the infant's 6 month of age, and decided to make that milestone my target.

As I've recounted, my first days of nursing found me wishing I hadn't chosen 6 months.  I thought I would never make it.  Then we found our rhythm, nursing took less time, caused less (no) pain, and I enjoyed it. 6 months? No way, we were gonna go a year! From mom's milk to cow's milk.

Then came the pumping.  Oh, the pumping.  I hate pumping.  I hate losing track of time, then running to my office, stripping off my top/dress/whole outfit, hooking myself up to this obnoxious device, sitting there tapping my feet (reading the NYTimes online, god bless it!), staring (trying not to) but staring at the bottles, inner monologue running- come on, come on, come on, fill, fill fill.  In the beginning, I called it a "bumper crop," Man, I was gonna have milk for years!  Maybe I'd be one of those awesome women who can donate milk! I was a milk-producing superstar!  And then, as it tends to do in this crazy world of parenting, the roller coaster went around another corner, and those bottles weren't filling as quickly.  So I'd wait longer between expressing sessions.  Wait til I thought I'd burst.  Watching that supply in the deep freeze start to dwindle.  Daycare was giving her 4-5 bottles a day, that's like one every 2 hours!  I couldn't keep up.  But I was afraid to say anything.  Doubting myself again.  What if they think I'm telling them to not feed my child? What if they think I'm a bad mother?  What if they think I'm pushy?  What if they don't like me and take it out on Tilly?  I got down to 16 bottles in the fridge.  Like an Obsessive-Compulsive, I'd count every day.  16 bottles, 4 days of day care.  One night I sat crying as I nursed her to sleep.  Beating myself up.  I'm supposed to be able to do this!  I'm supposed to be able to feed her!  What's wrong with me?

I called the lactation consultant (again).  No, she told me, It's supply and demand.  The more you do it, the more you make.  Pump more often, not less. Don't worry about the amount in the bottle, it will increase.  Then she said the most amazing thing.  Congratulations, she said.  You should be so proud.  What a great thing you have accomplished, nursing this entire time.  Wow.

And so I tried.  I re-arranged my patient schedule.  I aimed for every 2.5 hours.  I made it to every 3-4.  I couldn't do it.

12 bottles.
I got up the courage and approached her teachers.  No problem, they said. And they fed her every 3 hours, only 3 times a day, and (appropriately) re-interpreted her fussiness to indicate fatigue, not hunger.  She took more naps.

8 bottles.
I wasn't going to make it.  I was producing 2 bottles a day, she was drinking 3.
How could I give her formula?  The marketing strategies, the long ingredient list, the expense. It wasn't part of my plan!

6 bottles.
If this continued, she'd have to switch to formula-only within a few days.  I opened a canister (guess those marketing strategies work- it came free in a tote bag, and man I'm a sucker for tote bags), made her a 4oz bottle.  It was Deja Vu all over again.  I left the room, Reggie gave her the bottle. I knew she'd reject it.  I knew she'd see the hoax.  This fake milk I was trying to push.  I was wrong. Again.  No problems.  She was fed, she was happy.  I was....relieved?

She now takes 2 bottles of milk, 1 bottle of formula at school.  No problems.  No worries.  My little girl talks, she dances, she grabs the spoon from my hand when she's eating carrots, she has four teeth, and curly hair, and a really big smile.  Such a little thing.

I'm not radical.  I'm not an extremist.  I have trouble letting go of my ideals.  Maybe I judge myself too harshly, maybe out of fear that others will.  Being a mom is hard.  I'm learning that I'm better at it when my stress is low.  I'm learning that maybe I'm a good mom, and maybe there's no such thing as perfect.  I'm learning that there are big things and there are little things. I'm proud of myself.  I'm learning to let go a bit.  I know these little things aren't what is important.  I didn't expect it, but it turns out Mathilda and I are growing up together.