I was only a mother for about 20 minutes when they wheeled me into the recovery room and put my new baby girl on my chest. They were expecting her to latch right away so I could begin doing what my body was designed to do; give her the needed nutrients.
I was still processing the fact that I had just had an unplanned c-section, that my doctor yelled ‘oh no’ during delivery because my baby’s umbilical cord was wrapped around her neck, and the fact that I had given birth to a girl (a surprise my husband and I decided to wait until delivery to learn). And, of course, I was still trying to get the feeling back in my lower body after my spinal.
The lactation consultants were called in and gave me tips on ways to hold my baby while trying to breastfeed her; the football position, cradle, and cross-cradle.
I was not the mom with the exact birth plan I expected my doctor to follow. I was realistic and practical about the process and knew that having expectations about labor and delivery may lead to disappointment. However, I was the mom who dreamed about the adorable outfits I would put my baby in. I envisioned walking into town with my baby in tow, taking music classes with her, and rocking her to sleep.
I knew I wanted to try to nurse her but thought I would be stronger than the pressures to breastfeed because, in the end, “Fed is best,” right?
I remember the nurses asking me, as I was falling asleep on that first night as a mother, if I wanted to be woken up to feed the baby or if I was going to keep her in the nursery and give her formula. My body was calling for sleep, yet, I was a mom now, and I needed to consider what was best for my baby, not myself (I have since learned that if I don’t take care of myself, I can’t take care of my three daughters, but I’ll save that for another day). My daughter slept beside my bed that night, and I forfeited the formula and sleep.
I woke up several times that night to nurse my crying baby. I remember waking up for the day at around 6:30 a.m., having only a few hours of sleep between nurses checking vitals and needing to tend to this new being that I was now responsible for. I wondered how I was going to get used to this new normal.
The next few weeks continued in the same direction. My daughter and I bonded throughout feedings. We read books, took walks, saw friends and family, and put on those adorable outfits I had dreamed about. I felt like I was starting to get the hang of this motherhood thing, except for trying to navigate this strange, new world of breastfeeding.
Feeding after feeding, this little baby of mine would continue crying. We rocked, we sang, and we rocked again. My very supportive and patient husband thought my daughter wasn’t getting enough breastmilk during feedings. “But I’m feeding her for half an hour on each side; she HAS to be getting enough milk,” I would cry (literally cry!).
One night during week three of delirium, I fell asleep around 9 p.m. At close to 5 a.m., I awoke in a panic to a leaking breast and almost eight solid hours of sleep. How could that be? I ran into my daughter’s room only to find her sleeping and cuddled up against her dad’s chest with a bottle of formula next to the glider. Do I laugh or cry? I think I did both!
But I also breathed a sigh of relief. This bottle of formula, which I had seen as my arch nemesis, was now my friend. The anxiety and apprehension I had felt to ‘give in’ to the formula dissipated in a moment and turned into relief. I continued to breastfeed, pump, and formula feed for six more weeks before returning to work, and ultimately decided that I would formula feed my daughter moving forward because that’s what felt right.
Here I am, ten years since I started this journey called motherhood. I have learned a lot about myself since those early days. I have failed a lot but also succeeded even more. I now have three daughters, Hayden (10), Ayla (5.5), and Harper (3), and I work as a Social Worker seeing clients privately.
