I’ll confess: I had an idealized vision of breastfeeding. Despite my friends’ tales of the challenges they faced, I was convinced that my experience would be different. I pictured serene moments in a cozy chair, my baby peacefully nursing while I indulged in my favorite novels, effortlessly shedding the weight I had gained during pregnancy—a time when I devoured raspberry chocolate chip muffins as if they were water. I was sure that the pounds would simply melt away, and my bond with my daughter would be unbreakable.
Part of me holds that kindly nurse responsible for my naiveté. “Breastfeeding is such a special experience,” she said as she positioned my newborn at my breast. “You’ll master it in no time!” Oh, how wrong I was.
My daughter, Lily, arrived four weeks early, and the doctors informed me that her suck reflex was underdeveloped. They also mentioned that she had a weak suck—words that felt oddly insulting yet amusing in the chaos of new motherhood. Regardless, Lily showed little interest in nursing, while my breasts—sensitive, engorged, and leaking—were eager to feed her.
Twelve hours after her birth, I panicked, convinced that she might starve. She wouldn’t stop crying. Once we were home, I sprawled out on our king-sized bed with Lily nestled on my chest, desperately urging her to nurse. Finally, she latched on. The catch? She could barely take in any milk.
Feeding a preemie with a weak suck was a lengthy ordeal, often requiring twice as much time. This left me with little opportunity for self-care, and I found myself with only brief snippets of time to eat, shower, or tidy up. “You both look lovely,” my husband, Alex, remarked one evening as he entered the nursery. I couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy; while he appeared rested and revitalized, I was drowning in laundry and dirty dishes, my mascara long smudged.
As I struggled to provide proper nourishment for Lily, it felt like everything was spiraling out of control. I was terrified that she was shrinking while my frustration seemed to grow exponentially. During a pediatrician visit three weeks later, Dr. Harris grimly informed me, “She’s lost weight.”
In a moment of desperation, I snapped. “All I do is breastfeed her!” My voice echoed in the room, drawing the attention of everyone present. My husband’s face flushed, and I realized I was practically looming over the doctor, shaking my fist. He scribbled something on a notepad and handed it to me without making eye contact: “La Leche.”
Once home, I called the organization, and the woman on the other end sounded so put-together it made my blood boil. I was a mess, and she seemed like the epitome of calm. However, her soothing voice helped me refocus. She instructed me to purchase a plastic bottle, fill it with formula, and attach feeding tubes to my breasts to supplement Lily’s nursing. It felt somewhat deceitful, but I was determined to provide my daughter with the best nutrition possible.
That night, Alex ventured out for supplies, and I prepared for the experiment.
- Prepare formula.
- Pour liquid into bottle.
- Tape feeding tube to breasts.
- Squeeze to ensure formula flows at the right speed.
- Position baby.
Easy, right? Wrong. Managing a wriggling, hungry baby was no small task. Lily’s wails only heightened my anxiety. As I struggled to keep everything in place, I could hear Alex’s complaints from the other room, my stomach growled, and chaos reigned. Motherhood was not the serene picture I had envisioned; it was messy and exhausting.
After what felt like an eternity, Lily began suckling, finally at ease with the setup. Yet, by the time I cleaned up, she was awake and ready to eat again.
A week later, Dr. Harris noted that Lily was gaining weight, which brought me a sense of relief, even as I felt like I was unraveling. I had successfully used the supplemental nursing system, and despite my friends’ judgments, I felt a sense of achievement.
Four weeks into this routine, I decided to take a break and went for a walk with Lily in her stroller. In a moment of distraction, the stroller tipped, and my heart dropped as I heard her wail beneath it. My neighbor rushed over, and to my immense relief, Lily was unharmed, thanks to the pillow I had placed under her head.
That day, I made a crucial decision. I realized I had to prioritize Lily’s safety over my ideals about breastfeeding. I walked inside, discarded all the La Leche supplies, and after a hot shower, I switched to formula. Two hours later, Lily consumed more formula from a bottle in a fraction of the time it took when nursing, and she slept soundly for four hours.
When we both awoke, the room was filled with soft light, and I spotted a raspberry chocolate chip muffin on the nightstand. I took a bite, grateful for Alex’s thoughtfulness, and smiled at Lily, who returned my smile. Our journey together was finally beginning.
Summary
Breastfeeding a premature baby can be a challenging and exhausting experience. The journey of nurturing a preemie can often lead to unexpected decisions that prioritize the baby’s well-being over initial ideals. The author shares her struggles, the emotional rollercoaster of trying to breastfeed, and ultimately, the realization that sometimes, the best choice for both mother and child is to adapt and change.