When we first decided we wanted to have a baby, my husband and I did all the things. From genetic counseling to ovulation apps, buying a solid aisle at Barnes and Noble to asking everyone we know for advice. When we finally saw that little pee plus sign, we felt "prepared" to be parents. Bring it on.After the 12-week milestone, we hit the ground running. We devoured books and videos and mommy and daddy blogs with an insatiable appetite. I signed up for every prep class at our local birthing center. One had especially caught my eye. It was called "Mother's Milk," and described a two-hour course about breastfeeding. Who could learn everything there is to know about nurturing a child with one's own sustenance in a crash course? This girl. Duh.I walked in alone (figured I'd save my husband from this one because, really, how could he possibly help with breastfeeding?) amidst a dozen or so other would-be moms sans their husbands, too. The class was taught by a "lactation specialist" (eyeroll) who began by stating all the benefits of breastfeeding. As a self-taught expert from the passages of "What to Expect..." I wondered if I was wasting my time. The second hour was all about various positioning and latch techniques demonstrated with a lifeless doll. Ok, so you pop that newborn onto a boob like a football with a suction cup. How hard could it be?Fast forward to the day my son was born. I was already annoyed that nothing on the birth plan actually happened (hello unexpected cesarean, goodbye golden hour), but couldn't wait for those first precious bonding moments with baby at my breast. In came another lactation specialist to make sure I entered breastfeeding bliss without problem. I confidently recounted my various preparations as I held my son for his first latch.No one prepared me for the weeks that have followed. After he lost a full pound from his first day on Earth and my eking colostrum supply, the doctors ordered supplements of donor breast milk. I couldn't believe I'd had hardly a chance to feed my baby on my own before some other successful mom out there imposed her developed nectar on us. I bawled more than he did in that first 24 hours. And then continued to do so as the flood of cortisol barricaded my oxytocin necessary to bring my own milk in. WTF, body, the books said you'd cooperate!The days that followed came with a team of pediatricians, nurses, friends, family members, and, continuing their clockwork appearances, the lactation specialists. And every one of them offered different advice. Change positions. Stay consistent. Undress him. Keep him warm. Picture a milk waterfall. Just let it happen. Massage your breast. He'll pull it out. Pump after feeds. Pump before feeds. Every three hours. Three times a day. Eat those cookies. Have you tried that tea? Is it a transfer issue? Or a supply problem? What size nipple shield are you? Don't depend on a nipple shield. And so on.Finally, we were out of the hospital. I could concentrate solely on feeding my son on demand. I was dedicated. I would get this. He had gained back six ounces by the time we left the hospital. He lost four by his two day appointment. If I didn't get those ounces back by the following week, formula was in my future. I was devastated. Didn't women do this for hundreds of years? Without shields and pumps and brewers yeast cookies? What was wrong with me?The first time I pumped four ounces, I cried again. It was finally starting to resemble milk, and a lot more of it. I was feeding on demand, pumping three times a day for 15 minutes, and goddammit I pictured the milk waterfalls. And I cried. With every poor latch and every time we resorted to a bottle of pumped milk and every time he woke an hour after feeding hungry again.But we did it. Today, the pediatrician said she wanted my son at birth weight. My husband and I went to the lactation specialist center (we regularly frequented there now) and faced the scale. Undressing our son, putting that little blue sheet of paper on the platform, turning on the warmer...this was it. I accepted what I was sure would be my failure. I couldn't deprive my son of precious nutrients out of my selfish pride. Formula isn't so bad, I reasoned with myself. And then those glaring red digits submitted their verdict. He was nine ounces over birth weight. You can guess what I did next. Cried. Yup. And proudly.What I've learned from this whole experience? No book or friendly anecdote or doll demonstration can prepare you for breastfeeding, or anything in parenting, really. I am so grateful to all the people who knocked my ego down a few pegs. I had literally no idea what I was doing. And we are just starting to figure it out as a family. There is no manual for things like this. I had to be physiologically ready. I had to be shown. My son had to be fed in the meantime. My husband had to have an active role, if only in supporting my decision and telling me it would be ok. The lactation specialists know their shit. Nipple shields aren't the devil, and neither are bottles. And if I need to resort to formula in the future to ensure our son grows strong and healthy, that's not the end of the world. But for now, I'm so glad to be where we are on ths journey.So, for any other new moms out there feeling like they're failing at feeding, you're doing the best you can. Listen to your body, listen to your baby, and it's ok to listen to the people who are trying to help. You are not a failure. You've got this. And remember there is no manual aside from the one you're writing as you go. via /r/Parenting https://ift.tt/35nmhh6
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