This week, for the first time in Edith’s life, there have been times when nursing didn’t hurt.
I have to say it again because it still blows my mind.
Sometimes. Nursing. Doesn’t. Hurt.
For this I have to thank a clear slip of silicone called a nipple shield. It creates a bit of a barrier between me and baby’s croc jaws. It also has space at the tip for milk to pool a bit so she’s not inundated by my fast flow.
But I wouldn’t have asked for the nipple shield at my most recent (dare I say it—perhaps last?) lactation appointment if it weren’t for the women who read this blog and the women in my new moms group. You shared your stories, many of them similar to mine. You mentioned what worked for you without assuming it would work for us. And best of all, you offered love, support and encouragement.
Thank you.
There is so much judgment wrapped up in motherhood, both from myself and others. But I never felt judged in the comments you’ve written here and on Facebook. “We support you no matter how you feed your baby,” I heard again and again. Those were the words I needed when I felt as if I were sinking.
I haven’t wished Edith would just keep sleeping since we started using a nipple shield. (Well, except for when she wakes hungry in the middle of the night an hour and a half after I last fell back asleep. Who wouldn’t?) I no longer dread strapping on my nursing pillow, getting ready for that first painful latch and every suck after that.
Now when she nurses, I appreciate how her hand rests on me as she eats. I laugh at her appreciative food critic noises. (I swear sometimes she sounds like Bill Murray eating corn in What About Bob?) And I’m so grateful to have the opportunity to nourish my baby—who is thriving—the way I had hoped. After nearly eight weeks of struggling, this taste of hope feels so good.
Edie, our little peeper monkey, met some other animals this week: We took our first trip to the zoo.
Eric spent the trip helping a family we know look after their boys. (No one wants to see a little boy be dispatched by a lion or croc!) After he rushed off with them—they had already moved on from the mountain goats by the time I made it through the entrance—I wandered in with Edie.
As I pushed the stroller down the ramp to an underwater observation area, Edith began to scream. Her wails echoed off the concrete faux rocks that made up the cave. I sat down on a step, figuring it was as good a place as any to nurse her.
As Edith ate, I realized it was better: My impromptu feeding station had a view. An enormous sea lion swam in circles, sliding right up the glass where delighted children waved to it and posed for pictures. We were so close I could see its eye, slightly cloudy and rimmed with long lashes. That in and of itself made the whole adventure worthwhile.
This sea lion put on a show for us.
We later met up with a friend, Carisa, and her daughter. I was immediately grateful to have her help. Carisa pushed our stroller while I held Edith in a front carrier. She handed me a blanket to cover Edie with because I’d forgotten a sun hat (rookie mistake). And she watched my little girl when I ran to the café to grab a veggie burger (I forgot the lunches I’d packed in the car—another first-timer slipup).
We didn’t come close to visiting all the animals. A pack of wild dogs appeared in the enclosure in front of the bench where I happened to change Edith’s diaper, though, and we watched hawks and vultures swoop low over other zoo-goers during the bird show. We’ll leave the hippos, giraffes and polar bears for a future visit
Carisa and Mia entertain Edith, and vice versa.
The creature I most enjoyed watching was 3-year-old Mia. She delighted in showing me around, taking photos of the cheetahs and playing “tickle monster” on the lawn. She has such a fun personality that I couldn’t help but look forward to when Edith is big enough to explain rules of a make believe game or have favorite animals to visit.
I’m also learning about taking our Peeper out on adventures: I need to stash a sun hat in my diaper bag. It doesn’t hurt to have an experienced mama along to help and offer support. And, when I’m able, I’ll be choosing a cool, shaded place to nurse that has a view.
When Eric and I discussed names for our Peeper, Edith came up: A charming classic that would honor my great-grandmother. Edith Phelps was my maternal great-grandmother but we all called her Pretty Grandma. No one remembers why, but I imagine the name suited her just fine.
Pretty doesn’t do her justice: She was a beautiful person.
In the sixth grade, we all had to create a project on a poster board triptych for a fair. I chose to profile Pretty Grandma. I painstakingly pasted photocopied pictures of her onto the red butcher paper that covered the cardboard. I taped up letters that she had sent me. I displayed an antique stereoscope that belonged to her. On the big day of the fair, I stood by my display and watched as other kids and their families politely smiled as they passed by my project. My hand-lettered title and humble subject weren’t as flashy as the other kids’ work, but I was proud. Even then I knew that she was more important than popularity in a middle school gym. She was an amazing woman.
Pretty Grandma was gentle. I remember lying in her bed in my grandma’s basement surrounded by hand-stitched quilts. She read me Chicken Little—“The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”—before I drifted off to sleep. I felt safe and cozy with her.
Pretty Grandma was tough. She grew up on a farm in Illinois and raised her brothers and sisters. Her stepmother doted on her biological children but treated my great-grandma and her full siblings more like servants. I remember lightly stroking the nub of one shortened finger, evidence of how strong she was: She pricked it while sewing and her stepmother refused to call the doctor when it got infected. It had to be amputated later. She never complained about the stump or the mistreatment she suffered; hardship was a part of life for her, something to be overcome.
Pretty Grandma plays with my brother Bill, always a serious baby.
Pretty Grandma was patient. She taught me checkers and never refused a challenge from me. She let me watch Hollywood Squares, her favorite show, with her, even though I was much too little to understand any of the trivia.
Pretty Grandma was resilient. She lived to 106 years and was herself every day. She might not have had her original hair (I walked in on her taking off her wig one day; I was embarrassed, but I don’t think she knew—she had her hearing aid turned off) but she was nothing if not authentic.
Pretty Grandma was loving. She and I wrote letters—and later, when she got older, post cards (they were shorter)—back and forth as soon as I learned the alphabet. I told her about what was happening in my classes, scribbled notes when I was on vacation and asked about her days at home then, later, at the nursing home. She often quoted passages from the Bible; “This is the day the Lord has made; let us be glad and rejoice in it” was a favorite. It reflected her verve and gratitude.
Her letters were full of her passion for nature: She wrote about the changing seasons and the flowers she was growing and what she saw out her window. I couldn’t wait to read her latest message and my eyes pored over her looping and slightly shaky cursive, even though her letters seldom held much news. Her observations of what was blooming, the falling leaves and a snowy landscape were enough.
I hope that someday our Edie Mae will be as gentle, tough, patient, resilient and most of all loving as Pretty Grandma was. The world could use another 106 years of an Edith like her.
At the beginning of the week, I found myself in room 1 of the lactation clinic. Again. The nurses there started calling me a frequent flyer several visits ago. The other babies in the waiting area are teeny; they “graduate” and move on while Edie, at almost 7 weeks, and I still find ourselves in the remedial class.
Each time I go to the clinic, I hope that time will do the trick, that Edith and I will finally figure out how to successfully nurse. Every article and listserv and web site I’ve trolled say that breastfeeding shouldn’t hurt if you “do it right.” By that standard, we’re definitely doing a lot of things wrong.
More than two weeks after Edie’s tongue tie was treated, I still hurt every time she ate. I’ve hit so many walls when I simply want to give up yet somehow I continue. Edith is the reason I’m doing this: I want to give her the best food possible, and I want to be the one to give it to her. I swear she must know when I’ve hit my breaking point. After a miserable night with no sleep, she showers me with smiles and gurgles that make me vow to do whatever it takes to make her happy.
How could I not want to give her everything?
I thought the same thing when I was preparing for Edie’s arrival: I would do anything to ensure her healthy birth. Eric and I decided that would include having our baby without medication. The first part of labor was a breeze: Eric, my sister Amy and I took Finn on a long walk in the park. Once I got to the hospital, though, everything became much more serious. I vomited through much of it. None of the positions that we learned in birthing class relieved the pain. My labor was progressing surprisingly quickly for a first-time mom, my midwife said, but the contractions came one after the other with no relief in between. What’s more, I later realized, I was having back labor.
Finally, I looked at Eric and said “Durian,” our code word that meant that I really did want help and he shouldn’t try to dissuade me or tell me I could do without. So at 9 1/2 centimeters dilation, I got an epidural. It kicked in a few contractions later and I was ready to marry the anesthesiologist.
I rested for 45 minutes then the nurse next checked our progress. “I see hair!” she said. The epidural allowed my body to relax and dilate the final half-centimeter. What’s more, I finally fully effaced, and Peeper turned so she was no longer facing up—the cause of the back labor. 48 minutes of pushing later. I held our beautiful daughter.
“Giving up” and getting an epidural, which was nowhere in our birth wishes, turned out to be the best decision for Edie’s birth. I have no regrets about it.
Would throwing in the nursing towel be the same, or would I regret it?
I’ve had moments in the last few days that were absolutely miserable. Eric had to stand by helpless as I doubled over sobbing, clutching my middle, because I hurt too bad to feed our daughter. He had to choose between soothing Edith and consoling his wife. No one should be faced with that decision.
Another moment I fell apart because the cap to a bottle of my pumped milk wasn’t screwed on tight enough and it spilled when I tested its temperature on my wrist. I despaired over the hard work it had taken to get that milk and cried over its loss. I also felt terrible that I’d become so desperate that losing a half-ounce of milk could reduce me to a blubbering mess.
Then there were the times when I heard Edie start to rouse from sleep and an ugly part of me didn’t want her to wake up. I dreaded having to suffer through 20 minutes of a feeding. Worse than that pain was acknowledging what I’d been reduced to: someone who hoped her baby would just continue to sleep. That was not the kind of mother I want to be.
I haven’t given up completely yet. I’m pumping from the more painful side, which the midwife told me yesterday (at my eighth lactation visit, by my count) is infected and clogged to boot. I’m hoping the antibiotics and rest will allow me to heal enough that I can continue nursing.
If not, we’ll have to reassess and move forward on a plan B. Even more difficult will be loving myself as an imperfect mom who did what she could but reached her breaking point.
“Did you leave a candle burning?” I was cuddling Edith in bed and Eric was passed out next to me when I smelled something funny a few nights ago. Eric roused himself to investigate.
A few minutes later, half our apartment was filled with stinky vapor. Eric had found the source of the burning scent: a half-melted Tupperware lid inside the dishwasher. I had loaded and started it earlier (gasp! The new mom cleaned something!). I had put the plastic top on the bottom shelf.
I could blame sleep deprivation or mommy brain fog or the fact we haven’t had a dishwasher since I moved out of my parents’ house. But I think I made the mistake simply because that’s where the lid fit.
We opened every window, the balcony door and the front door to air out the apartment and faced the fans to blow air outside. Then we bundled up a sleeping Edie, leashed Finn and went outside.
Eric treated our impromptu nighttime stroll like an adventure but I was beside myself: Only five weeks in and I almost poisoned my family. One stupid mistake and my newborn was inhaling who knows what toxic fumes.
When the air cleared at home, we set Edith down in her cosleeper. She had slept through the whole ordeal. I, on the other hand, couldn’t sleep. What had I done? What sort of damage had I caused? What if we’d already been asleep?
I’ve always skewed toward the anxious worrier side of the spectrum, and I have a hard time letting myself off the hook. My stomach still drops when I recall mean things I said in middle school. If beating yourself up were a sport, I’d have medaled in the Olympics by now.
Eric tried to reassure me and pointed out that our baby was sleeping peacefully. Eventually I nodded off. And although the Tupperware was destroyed, no one else seemed to have suffered any lasting damage.
Since then I’ve thought a lot about that night and my reaction. I’ve realized that learning to be gentle with myself is harder than learning how to swaddle a baby or soothe her or make myself breakfast one-handed. Yet it’s perhaps even more important in becoming a good mama.
After all, I will teach Edith by my example. If I want her to learn to be kind to herself—and I do—then I must follow my own advice. That will be one of the most important lessons I hope to impart to her: Love yourself, and be quick to forgive yourself.
I’ll continue to read up on baby milestones and work on perfecting my swaddling technique. All the while, I’ll practice being a bit less critical and a bit more understanding to the mama I’m trying to become.
Babies have a way of making nearly everyone within a 20-foot radius melt: Strangers coo; friends gasp at every squeal; grandparents are reduced to tears. Along with the mushy outpouring have come meals, well wishes and gifts. All are welcome—in fact, I probably wouldn’t have eaten at all the first few weeks without the baked orzo, salad and enchiladas friends delivered to us.
The one thing I wish no one would gift us, however, is the cheery exhortation to “enjoy every moment.”
Perhaps it’s easy to wish us this because of the nostalgia that wipes out memories of the parts of new parenthood that are not Kodak moments or the fact that strangers usually see us when Edith is either sleeping or contentedly looking around the world. Regardless of why, though, it’s demoralizing to be told that I should love every second of my new life as a mom.
Peeper exercises her lungs. (And if you look closely you can see her tongue tie.)
In fact, I hate pumping. I fear that I’ll fall asleep and drop my baby when I try to lull her to sleep by bouncing on an exercise ball at 5:30 in the morning. My toes curl during the excruciating first minute of a latch while Edith demands that milk flow fast enough to splash her tonsils.
Does this mean I love my baby any less? I don’t think so.
I delight in naming every body part I kiss. (“I kiss your knee! I kiss your elbow! I kiss your other elbow!”) I think it’s hilarious when Edie poops on me during our bath time. I can stare for hours at her facial expressions when she sleeps, watching them change like the shadows cast on a landscape during a cloudy day.
I enjoy most moments with her, but certainly not all of them. One particularly crushing morning after almost no sleep, as I dissolved in front of a friend who has an 8-month-old, she nodded knowingly. “It’s ok to be in love and be miserable at the same time,” she told me.
That advice may not have the same Hallmark ring as “enjoy every moment,” but it’s a whole lot more useful.
Yesterday Edith Mae turned one month old. It’s clichéd, but I couldn’t believe how much time had flown past since the Sunday Edie joined our family.
Those first moments with her are still vivid: her bewildered, angry cry; her purple hue; the warmth of her on my chest. I could tear my eyes away from her only to look at Eric. How did we possibly get so lucky? How did we manage to create something so beautiful and perfect?
Her socks are so baggy on her!
Since then we’ve had a lot of firsts. Edith’s first car ride, going home from the hospital, was a stressful one. Eric tensed up in the front seat and angrily criticized the other drivers as we hit traffic on I-84; I sat in the back and watched over our precious cargo. The last time we’d driven that stretch I was in labor.
Papa and Scrunchface seek the shade.
We took our first family outing nearly a week after Edith was born. We packed a picnic and sat in the shade at Champoeg State Park, where settlers met in 1843 and decided to form a provisional government for Oregon Country. We learned the importance of packing an extra outfit when she peed on herself while we changed her—a habit that has seemingly become her favorite pastime. (“My diaper is off? Terrific! I need to empty my bladder!”
Peeper is sure to become a water weasel, delighting in the river for swimming, splashing and of course kayaking.
We visited the river for the first time a few weeks later. We went to Milo McIver State Park, one of our favorite places for disc golfing, where we went the week I was due. It was so hot then and I was so huge that I sat in a camp chair in the chilly Clackamas to cool down; this time Edith and I sat on the bank while Eric swam. The trip also counted as her first disc golfing adventure, although she slept through the few holes Eric played. The trip was worth the stress of getting there: While driving, Edith woke and screamed until we pulled into an Oil Can Henry’s, where I nursed her in the parking lot while local kids filled up their oversized inner tubes outside the car window.
Tummy time fail.
More recently, Edie had her first tummy time. She must have missed the memo on what tummy time’s all about because she fell asleep immediately. In later attempts, she’s lifted her head and even turned it toward me when I scooted around behind her. She, Finn and I get down on the floor together for family tummy time now. I can hardly believe how strong her neck has gotten.
She’s focusing her eyes!
I imagine every month will bring more firsts. And I’m sure I’ll marvel at how much she has changed. Edith is already outgrowing her newborn onesies, and when we weighed her yesterday, she’d gained six ounces in five days. When we receive gifts from friends, my first impulse is to return the sleepers and dresses they’ve given us. “She’ll never fit into this,” I think. “It’s so big!” I can’t fathom her filling out a nine-month outfit.
So happy one month, little Peeper. We love you very much and can’t wait to see what the next month holds!
A few weeks after I gave birth to Edith, another new mom I was acquainted with took a bottle out of her diaper bag and began to feed her baby. I was a bit surprised because formula feeding isn’t terribly common among Portland liberals. But later she described how she had come to pumping and feeding her newborn both at the breast and at the bottle: At her baby’s two-week pediatric visit, they discovered the little one had continued to lose weight, and her milk supply had decreased. Her pain showed through her quavering voice and trembling lip.
My heart reached out to her then, but I now know how she felt.
Last Monday, Eric was out of town for work and I knew I’d be on my own for two days, so I checked out a new moms group nearby. When it was my turn, I shared how Edith had had two fussy and sleepless nights in a row and that I was still looking forward to the day when nursing wouldn’t hurt so terribly. The other moms encouraged me to go straight to the lactation clinic and get help. “It’s not right for you to be hurting so much at three weeks,” someone said.
After a disheartening visit to the nurse there, I was sent home with a loaner pump and instructions to nurse only from one side to give the other a chance to heal. After Edith had eaten, I set up the pump, a blue monstrosity with a piston that looked more like a torture device than anything. But the moment I tried to use it, Edith began to wail
She was hungry. And I couldn’t feed her.
The night only worsened. At one point, I was rocking Edith in her bassinet with my foot while she wailed, pumping and sobbing. “I’m sorry,” I kept saying. The machine’s wheezing competed with our cries in one of the more heartbreaking symphonies that could exist.
The next day was barely better. At my follow-up appointment, I learned that Edith had stopped gaining weight since her pediatric visit the previous week. Not only was I letting my child go hungry, I was starving her. Apparently, more than three weeks of inflammation, clogged ducts and pain had taken its toll on my milk supply.
When I first started nursing, I used to apologize to Edie for dripping milk all over her. The night I found out she had lost weight, I apologized for not being able to feed her properly and dripped my tears onto the top of her head as I tried to sway and soothe her
I’ve never felt like such a failure, especially not in something so important. I had been tasked with the most fundamental of jobs—feed your baby—but couldn’t deliver. Every time I sat down with that blue pump or fed her from a bottle was a reminder that I couldn’t cut it and was letting down my beautiful baby girl. I felt unfit as a mother.
On Friday at yet another follow-up visit with a lactation nurse, Nancy—a spunky breast cancer survivor with a Jersey accent—took one look at Edith and told me I had nothing to worry about. “She’s a Buddha baby. Look at that belly!” Even better than her proclamation was the scale’s testimony: Edith had gained six ounces in four days. I could have fainted I was so relieved. Nancy also told me my milk supply was fine: “You’re like a fire hydrant! You have beautiful equipment. Just ask your husband.” And when Edith pooped all over the scale, Nancy was elated. “Look at that gorgeous poop!”
I needed a laugh.
Even better was Nancy’s diagnosis. It turns out that Edith has tongue tie, which means the membrane that connects her tongue to the bottom of her mouth is unusually tight. It restricts her tongue’s movement and makes it scrape against my nipples with every suck. No wonder my boobs look and feel like a battlefield.
A diagnosis, even one whose treatment involves clipping part of my baby’s tongue with scissors, was encouraging: Maybe we can fix this.
Now when she nurses, I appreciate how her hand rests on me as she eats. I laugh at her appreciative food critic noises. (I swear sometimes she sounds like Bill Murray eating corn in What About Bob?) And I’m so grateful to have the opportunity to nourish my baby—who is thriving—the way I had hoped. After nearly eight weeks of struggling, this taste of hope feels so good.
