Breast Tissue
My breasts were one of the first ways in which my visions of motherhood didn’t match up with reality. They represent the first time I let my kids down. Of course, I didn’t really let them down -- they were infants, they grew and thrived, and everything was fine. But my breasts are symbolic of my first big parenting disappointment.
I was going to do everything "right", and that included nursing my children. My plan was to breast-feed, or provide pumped milk, exclusively until my babies were old enough to eat solid food. I wouldn’t introduce a bottle until they were old enough to avoid nipple confusion, and my milk alone would sustain them for as long as possible. I did all the reading, and being a natural kind of mama knew that this was what would be best for my children. No formula allowed.
Never in this planning did I stop to think (nor did anyone tell me), that my grand, perfect-natural-parenting plan might not work. However, within a day of my daughter’s birth I found out the hard way when I simply could not produce enough milk for her. There was a lot going on -- she had to return to the hospital for several nights because of jaundice, and they insisted on giving her a bottle early on. I tried to pump the milk for her bottles, but my supply had not been built up enough yet. Other mothers around me literally had milk flowing, squirting, spraying out of their breasts and the best I could do was to squeeze a few drops.
There were visits with lactation consultants who put me on a strict pumping and nursing schedule in order to build up my milk supply. I was to have my baby nurse on both breasts every four hours (waking her up to do so if necessary), and then follow up the nursing by pumping for another 20-30 minutes with the electric pump. I had to keep a journal -- nursing, pumping, and how many times a day my kid peed or pooped, in order to track whether she was getting enough nourishment. And I did it all, every bit of it, faithfully, though driving myself and my spirit into the ground in the process.
When I took R. to her 6-week appointment I was fraught with anxiety about whether or not she was gaining enough weight. The nurse-practitioner weighed her, brought her back to me, and told me that it was not sufficient. R. had only gained a few ounces and it should have been three times as much, and hearing the news I literally collapsed on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. I felt like a failure as a mother and as a woman because I couldn’t do the most basic task of adequately nourishing my child.
The nurse, who was a grandmotherly type, took my face in her hands and said, “You need to enjoy your child. And no one can be a better mother to her than you.” She gave me the permission that I wasn’t giving myself -- to relax my standards and use formula, to make decisions that would allow both my daughter and myself to thrive. I began supplementing my nursing with formula, and continued nursing R. (and later Kiddo #2) well past their first birthday. My difficulties producing milk were a physiological matter of breast tissue and not whether or not I was a good mother. Given the nature of my breast tissue (which has little to do with breast size) I was physically unable to produce enough milk. I produced, sure, but not enough to satisfy the demands of a growing baby. Objectively I knew that my final decision was best for both of us, but I still had a difficult time getting past the feelings of failure, of letting my child down.
I was trying to be The Good Mother, as defined from outside of myself, but self-imposed nonetheless. The reality, in this case, was that being a good mother was a whole lot more complicated than the natural mothering magazines led me to believe. The decisions were not so clear cut, the good/bad was not well-defined, and I had to chart a course that I had not anticipated or expected. I’m writing this all because I find that these decisions never stop, that I’m still battling The Good Mother syndrome, except now in relation to my marriage and the path that I’ll take for the future. And my breast is still very much part of it: motherhood, sexuality, aging, image, creation, what I'm capable of or not, need fulfillment, etc. It was hard then. It is even harder now. And I don't have a kindly nurse-practitioner to give me the answers.
I was going to do everything "right", and that included nursing my children. My plan was to breast-feed, or provide pumped milk, exclusively until my babies were old enough to eat solid food. I wouldn’t introduce a bottle until they were old enough to avoid nipple confusion, and my milk alone would sustain them for as long as possible. I did all the reading, and being a natural kind of mama knew that this was what would be best for my children. No formula allowed.
Never in this planning did I stop to think (nor did anyone tell me), that my grand, perfect-natural-parenting plan might not work. However, within a day of my daughter’s birth I found out the hard way when I simply could not produce enough milk for her. There was a lot going on -- she had to return to the hospital for several nights because of jaundice, and they insisted on giving her a bottle early on. I tried to pump the milk for her bottles, but my supply had not been built up enough yet. Other mothers around me literally had milk flowing, squirting, spraying out of their breasts and the best I could do was to squeeze a few drops.
There were visits with lactation consultants who put me on a strict pumping and nursing schedule in order to build up my milk supply. I was to have my baby nurse on both breasts every four hours (waking her up to do so if necessary), and then follow up the nursing by pumping for another 20-30 minutes with the electric pump. I had to keep a journal -- nursing, pumping, and how many times a day my kid peed or pooped, in order to track whether she was getting enough nourishment. And I did it all, every bit of it, faithfully, though driving myself and my spirit into the ground in the process.
When I took R. to her 6-week appointment I was fraught with anxiety about whether or not she was gaining enough weight. The nurse-practitioner weighed her, brought her back to me, and told me that it was not sufficient. R. had only gained a few ounces and it should have been three times as much, and hearing the news I literally collapsed on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. I felt like a failure as a mother and as a woman because I couldn’t do the most basic task of adequately nourishing my child.
The nurse, who was a grandmotherly type, took my face in her hands and said, “You need to enjoy your child. And no one can be a better mother to her than you.” She gave me the permission that I wasn’t giving myself -- to relax my standards and use formula, to make decisions that would allow both my daughter and myself to thrive. I began supplementing my nursing with formula, and continued nursing R. (and later Kiddo #2) well past their first birthday. My difficulties producing milk were a physiological matter of breast tissue and not whether or not I was a good mother. Given the nature of my breast tissue (which has little to do with breast size) I was physically unable to produce enough milk. I produced, sure, but not enough to satisfy the demands of a growing baby. Objectively I knew that my final decision was best for both of us, but I still had a difficult time getting past the feelings of failure, of letting my child down.
I was trying to be The Good Mother, as defined from outside of myself, but self-imposed nonetheless. The reality, in this case, was that being a good mother was a whole lot more complicated than the natural mothering magazines led me to believe. The decisions were not so clear cut, the good/bad was not well-defined, and I had to chart a course that I had not anticipated or expected. I’m writing this all because I find that these decisions never stop, that I’m still battling The Good Mother syndrome, except now in relation to my marriage and the path that I’ll take for the future. And my breast is still very much part of it: motherhood, sexuality, aging, image, creation, what I'm capable of or not, need fulfillment, etc. It was hard then. It is even harder now. And I don't have a kindly nurse-practitioner to give me the answers.