Struggling to Accept & Accepting the Struggle

I failed.... I told myself I wouldn't be so hard on myself anymore, but I still feel that way.  My friends are sick of hearing about it and I'm sick of mentioning it. Every time I cradle my hungry baby and he turns to my shirt with his eyes closed, my heart shatters; you would think his instincts would have faded by now.  Every time someone asks, my stomach drops.  When I see nursing bras, "hooter hiders", mothers feeding their babies as nature intended it.... I beat myself up inside. When people assume I breastfeed that knocks me down quite a few. My high expectations weren't met, Tyler is exclusively bottle fed. My eyes well as I type that; my instincts have not faded either.

When I held him for the first time, it was "skin to skin". I wanted to try breast feeding as soon as possible. The nurses were gentle and encouraging. He latched right away (or so I thought). It was all I had hoped for.  Grace and I had problems from the get go, issues out of our control.  I was eager to start over with my next baby.  I was positive it would be easier. This time it was going to work.  I fed him for 20-30 minutes.  We bonded. I was so proud and nothing can take that memory from me. For a moment, I was the mother I wanted to be.

Within the following days, I learned that he wasn't latching properly and I had the bloody sores to prove it.  I tried and tried and tried.  Football, cradle, football, left side, right side, pillows here, right side, MORE PILLOWS, laying down, football.  The nurses worked with me for hours. "He's formed a lot of bad habits sucking his fingers in utero.", one said. "He's got a small mouth.", said another. We were sent home, it looked promising. I was gonna stick it out and we were gonna do this, together.

Tyler had lost some weight at his 2 day appt but that was to be expected. They wanted to see him 4 days later to make sure he was gaining.  I met with the lactation consultant, she was considerate and supportive.  We would make this work.

At home, it did not work. Football, cradle, screaming, ravenous, left side, right side, bleeding, cracking. Crying. Crying. And I kept crying. It appeared I was breast feeding an alligator. I think, at times, Tyler got more blood than breast milk. I held him in front of me at an arms distance as he screamed for food, tears streaming down my face. I was petrified of him.  Petrified of what he would do to me when I let him try to latch. But, I was persistent. Poor Jeff watched as Tyler and I cried together, as my toes curled, as I gripped the arms of the glider. As I bled. As his son screamed famished cries.

If I admit it to myself, I knew something was wrong. He began swimming in his newborn clothes. He never rested comfortably, he always had a grimace on his face. I convinced myself that times were hard. Breast feeding was hard! I brought him to his follow up appointment, hoping to hear what I knew they were not going to tell me. I pulled him out of his car seat, undressed him and lay him on the scale.  The numbers confused me. He had gained! I looked again. I was tired and I was not right. He had lost almost 2 pounds since birth. He was 6lbs and some change. I stood in shock. The nurse looked concerned.  She held him, my now underweight baby, and put her hands over him.  Touched his head, looked in his screaming mouth.  She spoke, "He's dehydrated." I gasped. I didn't exhale. I froze. She handed him to me. "I'm going to go grab the pediatrician, okay?"

My eyes had never known tears like that. My heart had never known such ache. It's human nature to protect your young and I had not. I had stuck with breast feeding, had forced selfish dreams onto my baby and only to his detriment. I was starving him. I was failing. The following moments at the Dr's office were filled with a pediatrician's wisdom, a guzzled 2 ounces of formula, an inspection of my wounded breasts, the need for formula, encouragement to pump and quit breast feeding until I healed. My tears never stopped streaming. I heard lots of words and advice but I mostly kicked myself for being so stubborn.  And Tyler slept, his face no longer twisted in hunger.  He looked peaceful. He "slept like a baby".

The next week only brought more discouraging results. Pumping diminished my supply to nothing. Once healed, Ty showed no interest in what I had to offer and my body showed no interest in offering up anything. My body was now failing me. This was not what I was hoping for.  When I was pregnant, I had day dreamed of how easy it would be this time around. How he would take to it and I would be some seasoned pro. I bought nursing bras and covers in anticipation.  I searched online for cute nursing tops. My day dreams had betrayed me.

Now, here we are.  Eight weeks later. He's a handsome, little, formula fed devil.  All smiles most of the time. He's gaining as he should and proving to be a big boy, just like his papa. I still mourn the loss of breast feeding and the guilt sneaks up on me and kicks me in the teeth at times. It didn't work for us and I beat myself up about it more than any judgemental stranger (who sees me whip out a bottle instead of a boob when my 2 month old is hungry) could. I'm typing this not to explain to all those who are wondering but more to give myself the validation I need. 

So, here it is.....

You tried, Liz. You tried really hard. And you'll still be able to tell your children, "Nothing will stop me from being the best mother I can be for you. Because of you I try and I overcome. I hold you with all the hopes that I've done right by you. You make me so proud to be exactly who I am because I created you."