Twenty-four hours since I put on a brave face on giving up on breastfeeding, I feel pretty much as you'd expect: sad and grieved with periods of weeping and moments of doubt that I made the right choice to quit pumping. Clearly, I did make the right choice--clearly I had no choice. When even the lactation consultant says it's time to throw in the towel, it's time to throw in the towel.
But I also feel relieved and unburdened. I have an end-of-semester feeling, especially yesterday afternoon and evening, that light empty feeling you get when you've been working on something non-stop and it suddenly stops. My life has revolved around pumping for three weeks, and even more intensely this last week, and suddenly there is no pumping. When I think about yesterday afternoon, just before I pumped for the last time and then knew that it was the last time, when I was in the dining room just howling with grief and pain, I cry again because I have so much compassion for myself and what I was going through then, if that makes any sense.
I also have the feeling of disbelief you always have after something bad and unexpected happens, the feeling that it must be possible to go back and undo things. Except that, unlike when there is an accident and you can think, "If only I'd left the house five minutes earlier," there is nothing in the last three weeks that I could have done differently to make a different outcome. If Eric had been a different baby, or held off on being born so that he was bigger and more ready to nurse, or if I'd had different nipples, or smaller breasts so that maybe the pump would have been more effective or.... But there's nothing controllable, and nothing even random, like meeting up with a certain car at a certain intersection, that might have been a little different another time. And David points out that in a system with so many variables, wishing one had been different might change things to an even worse outcome. What if Eric had waited the extra two-plus-a-little weeks until his due date, and he'd been bigger and stronger and able to suck more effectively? But if he'd been bigger, the pushing stage of labor might have lasted longer than 14 minutes, and with the cord around his neck twice, maybe he'd have suffered from oxygen deprivation. It's better to just say, "Thank God nothing has gone seriously wrong."
I need a lot of reassurance from David and Scott that I did everything right, up to and including the decision to stop trying. But it's hard to remember that by myself.
So I am just left with having to feel all my various feelings, and grieve the fact that I will never breastfeed Eric. I feel so sad. I remember when my milk came in: first I pumped 5 cc, then the next time 10, the next time 20, the next time 40. It felt like I could keep doubling forever. For about two weeks I was the Dairy Queen, and it felt so good. It felt so good to be making his food. And as good as it felt, it feels just about twice that bad to have the supply dry up.
David has a theory about why I lost my milk (unlucky confluence of various factors plays a major role in it), but I am trying to just accept that it happened without needing to figure out why. Sometimes I can, but I am also definitely spending time in the Denial stage of grief.
Eric has taken the transition to bottles in stride, though I think he does spit up a little more on the formula than he did on breastmilk. I've been surprised to find that bottle-feeding is also a learned skill; last night, mixing formula for the first time, I was a nervous wreck about getting the proportions right, and Eric's feeding pattern is likely to change, so we have to learn about that, too. He's already pooping less often, because the formula moves through his system more slowly. And we're on our third set of bottles! The ones we bought before he was born are for a bigger baby (we expected to start giving him some breastmilk in a bottle in a few months, so that I could, for instance, take my sign language class this fall), so we went out last night and bought a newborn set, but they're no good--by the time Eric has eaten only a little of his meal, you either have to lay him down (risky re: ear infections; he's supposed to eat in a semi-upright position) or air starts getting into the nipple (causes spitting up). So this morning David went out and bought some of the fancy-schmancy angled bottles, which we hope will be better.
We are taking lots of pictures of Eric now. I realize I won't be able to re-create the full Elf Baby effect, even if I dress him in the outfit, because Eric's face has plumped up too much. Part of his Elf Baby look was that his chin was so pointy, but now his chin is sort of lost between his chipmunk cheeks. Scott says we can take a bunch of pictures now and shrink him down in Photoshop.
I didn't realize how skinny Eric was when he was born, until these last few days when he has started to get little fat creases at his wrists and ankles, and the round belly babies usually have.
The roll of film that will never turn out also contained the only pictures we took of me pregnant. David and I aren't much for taking pictures, and we finally took some of me in the hospital hallway on the way to check in at Labor and Delivery. Oh, well. We remember the Big Round Belly.
I'm so glad Scott brought the Polaroid to the hospital, or we'd have no pictures from that first night. I'm also glad we went ahead and bought the official hospital portrait.
Sly Baby has been retired from Eric's repertoire. He's looking at the world with wide-open eyes now. He doesn't sneak glances at you sideways, he looks you right in the face. He also seems to be getting better at getting his thumb into his mouth more or less on purpose.
Eric and I had a great night last night. One of our books says that a common mistake new parents make is that they think the baby wants to wake up and eat every time it moves and makes noise in its sleep, and they exhaust themselves and the baby getting it up and feeding it too often, so I have been trying to figure out when Eric is just shifting and re-settling and when he's really getting fussy (since his version of fussy is pretty low-key, it can be tricky). This means I hear him moving and making sounds, get up, turn on the nightlight, peer at him in his cradle, see that he's gone back to sleep, lie back down myself, etc. The book, whose underlying philosophy is obviously not the Attachment Parenting model, says the solution is to move the baby far enough away that you'll only hear it when it really starts screaming. I don't want to do that.
This morning Eric ate around 3, and then I started hearing him move again around 5. After he'd been restless for a little while, I figured he was ready to get up, so I picked him up and headed downstairs. I hadn't gotten halfway down the stairs before he was sound asleep in my arms. I decided not to try to re-settle him in his cradle, because I knew I would have to spend some time holding him before he was deeply enough asleep that I could put him down without waking him. I decided that he and I would lie down on the living room couch and I could doze while he finished waking up.
He slept until 9 a.m., and so did I. Periodically, he would shift in his sleep and make a little noise, and I would half wake up to check on him, and then we would both go back to sleep. I was on my back, and he was cradled in my arm along my breast with his back to the back of the couch. It was fabulous to sleep together. Being with me comforted him, and I could keep track of him without having to wake up all the way. David has been wanting Eric to sleep with us, and I have been resisting for fear of squishing him, but my half-night on the couch with Eric has sold me on the concept. It was wonderful sleep for both of us, and effortless to monitor him. So now we are going to think about how to make our bed feel safe enough that Eric can sleep with us.
Eric is sleeping here now, lying on the desk with his head cradled on my left arm while I type. Perhaps it's not the most ergonomic choice I could make, but it's sweet. He likes it. He really likes to be with a person whenever possible. And it's my job to be with him. Lucky me!
I am enjoying having the time and energy to be with him more instead of pumping all the time. And in between bouts of renewed sorrow, I am feeling good and happy to be with my baby. I love being a mom so far. I love that he's here. I feel good about the choice and about what my life looks like right now. And I feel good about Eric, who is thriving and doing everything a baby is supposed to do.
Posted by Su Penn at June 16, 2003 04:42 PM | TrackBack