Udderly Consumed

If you asked me to tell you about the first time I nursed my son, I’d probably tell you it was beautiful. My eyes would glisten as I recalled that intense, emotional moment that I’ll never forget as long as I live.

And that would be a straight up lie.

I do not remember the first time I breastfed my son. Let’s be real—I was comically sleep deprived. Two solid days in the hospital surrounded with Cervidil, Pitocin, epidurals, doctors, nurses, concerned faces and ultimately a C-section.

The point is, I don’t remember, but I knew I wanted to try. I had read enough articles, blogs and comments sections to know how good nursing was for my son, and I knew the cost savings was significant as well. Additionally, I looked forward to that bonding time with mother and son, keeping him close to me and only me for just awhile longer.

So, I tried it out. While I don’t remember the very first moments of the experience, I do remember the first few hours.

Mostly because they were awful.

No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get comfortable. I didn’t feel like he was comfortable. My son didn’t seem interested in latching, and when he finally did, it hurt. My nipples felt like they were being pierced with the fire of a thousand suns. The lactation nurse smiled at me in an “Okay, ya big baby” way and assured me this was normal. She also offered to help me with her tips and pointers. One of those tricks seemed to be vice-squeezing my breasts with both of her hands to get the flow moving along. It ultimately worked, and by the time I left the hospital, I did feel better about continuing nursing at home.

Unfortunately, home wasn’t much better. Right off the bat, I didn’t produce enough. My child was essentially born a caveman toddler, and he ate like one too. We purchased a pump, and I tried to pump in between actual nursing sessions. I began to think of myself as “Kim the Amazing Cow.” Even to this day, the sight of a breast pump makes my heart race and my blood pressure rise. I can still hear it, that stupid pump. I hear it hiss-whispering, “You suuuuck. You suuuuuuck.”

And I felt like I did suck. At all of it.

As weeks went on, I told everyone that I was getting the hang of it. Behind the scenes, I was spending every waking moment—and even some of the sleeping ones, too—thinking about how to be better at nursing. How could I beef up my supply? Did I need to go dairy free? Should I up my pumping efforts?

Pardon the pun, but I was udderly consumed.

By the time my maternity leave came to a close, I was still miserable but it was a contented miserable. I had made it 12 weeks, and my child was healthy and 85 percent of the time was getting his nutrition from me. I was convinced I could keep it up.

I was wrong.

Reentering the work force as a nursing new mom is absolutely more difficult than landing on the moon. I said it and I mean it. In fact, NASA should just hire new moms to run their entire program because there is absolutely no one more qualified. There I was, like so many women, doing my best to pivot back to normal. I’d shove myself into “pre-baby” clothing, keep my breast milk from leaking through my clothes, all the while pretending there wasn’t a giant, gaping hole in my heart every morning as I dropped my son at daycare.

What. A. Joke.

Three weeks into my return to work, I was officially flailing. My supply had all but dwindled. To add salt to my womb, by 11:00 every morning, the daycare was texting me they’d run out of breast milk and would supplement with formula. I felt like an enormous failure and knew I couldn’t keep this up.

At week 19, our family took a trip to Minneapolis for my birthday weekend. We left my son with my mother-in-law. I was so close to cancelling but ultimately chose to go.

We strategically chose a hotel that was connected to the Mall of America. I’d leave my husband and stepdaughters in a store, walk back to our hotel room and pump. And pump. And pump some more. When I’d finish and look down, there was so little in the receptacles that I would cry more tears than the milk I had just produced. I couldn’t understand why my body wouldn’t make the ONE thing my child needed. I already had enough anxiety about returning to work and leaving him. This breastfeeding failure was just another layer to heap onto that casserole of mom guilt.

Then, unexpectedly, my mother-in-law sent a picture of my baby after his bottle. She had run out of breast milk (quickly) and given him formula. In the picture, he was happy and beautiful, and I missed him so much it hurt.

In that moment I made a decision. I was done. My body was failing to make the thing he needed to eat, but it was absolutely making the one thing he needed even more: love.

It’s true that I do not remember the first time I nursed my son. But I absolutely remember the last. When we picked him up that Sunday afternoon, I held him and nursed him, my heart swelling. This was the beautiful, intense, emotional moment I remember most. I had done my best, and I had succeeded. We returned home, and I threw the pump away.

Whether you’re a new mom, a soon-to-be-mom or planning on becoming a mom, hear me. You are doing enough, and your baby loves you. Don’t let your own thoughts and expectations diminish that. Snuggle that baby. Skip the pump if you want to. It’s really okay.

You’re still that baby’s everything.

Kim Antisdel is a freelance writer and interior design sales rep for KC. She lives in Liberty with her husband, stepdaughters and son.

As always, please consult your health care provider with any questions or concerns.