In honor of National Breast Feeding Month, here is a piece I wrote for LA Parent Magazine some time ago. As it turns out, breast isn't always best...
I was a swimmer growing up. When I wasn’t in a racing suit at the elementary school
pool, I donned a cute one in my grandparent’s backyard, but covered it up with
a thick, oversized cotton t-shirt.
Ironically, I was more self-conscious of my over-developed chest than
the baby fat I held onto through high school graduation. Foolishly, I thought the cover-up
disguised my insecurity. Luckily,
with receipt of my diploma, came the realization that I might really benefit
from a breast reduction.
Many years later, I stand by my decision, and remain
thankful for my supportive and generous parents. The only thing I regret is not having given more thought to
the surgeon’s warning that as a result of the surgery I may lose my ability to breast
feed. I was 18. Childrearing seemed decades away. “They’ll be able to fix that by then”,
I thought. I was wrong, and quite
possibly had made my first parenting mistake in the same year I became eligible
to vote.
Once pregnant with my first daughter, the stress began to
set in. Would I be able to provide
properly for her financial, emotional, and lactational
needs?
Before I knew it, my husband was in the delivery room
swaddling our tiny angel for the very first time. Peaceful as she was then, her first desire to nurse was only
moments away. If it weren’t, a
sorority of pro-breastfeeding nurses was reminding me to encourage her, like
clockwork.
Although I’ll admit that breastfeeding felt quite unnatural
to me, I did give it a solid effort, as did my daughter. There was a learning curve, as there is
with all firsts, but we were an incredible team. Then out of nowhere, she cried, and cried, and cried.
I knew in that moment that the reserves she had been born
with were used up, and she was experiencing hunger for the first time- a hunger
I could not satisfy. In my heart I
knew that though a wonderful bonding exercise, she had not received nutrients
from the breastfeeding.
Upon expressing my concern to the nurses, I felt instantly like
the maternity ward black sheep. As
adamant disagreement, suggestions of what to differently and never-ending
visits from lactation specialists ensued, my frustration grew. More importantly, my daughter grew more
agitated. Finally, I asked for a
breast pump, with which I proved my point. I was drier than the Sahara Desert.
Several ounces of formula later, baby was sleeping and I was
under fire. My hospital room had
become a revolving door of doctors, nurses and staunch supporters of
breastfeeding. Don’t get me wrong;
I didn’t mind the support. What I
was offended by, though, was the determination with which each delivered their
advice.
Everyone had an opinion. I needed to take hot showers. I needed to massage.
I needed to change my diet.
I needed dietary supplements.
I needed to put her on the breast more and skip the pump. I needed to pump more and skip the
breast. The list went on and on.
Apparently, what I really needed, was a good cry. Once that happened, I realized that
while I would consult my mother, my friends, my OB-GYN and my pediatrician
throughout the years, the opinion that mattered most was my own. This was the greatest realization I’ve
had as a parent.
I decided (with my husband’s support) to bottle feed with
formula, but continue pumping several times a day for 2 weeks, with the hope
that my body would catch up.
Unfortunately, a decision I made well over a decade before my first
child was born made the breast or bottle debate a non-issue. Thankfully, I left the guilt attached
to it in the maternity ward. In
it’s place, I brought home a commitment to make all of her baby food from
scratch, a commitment to her health that I knew I could fulfill.
Five years later, my daughter towers over all of the girls
her age. She is healthy, intelligent,
beautiful, and has never had an ear infection or allergy. Most important, she is abundantly happy. Her smile is contagious.
