“I had an easy newborn,” is a phrase I’ve heard countless times. As I navigate through my sixth year of motherhood, I find myself puzzled by its meaning. When my second son was around a month old, I found myself at a coffee shop, tears streaming down my face as I opened a blank journal. The exposed brick wall in front of me was stark and clear, while my thoughts were muddled and foggy. I wished for the clarity of that wall, desperately seeking solace as a weary and overwhelmed mother. I envisioned what those early days of motherhood should have looked like—a tiny baby, breastfeeding peacefully, and sleeping soundly in my arms. Instead, I found myself staring at my half-finished coffee, grappling with the reality that felt so far from the ideal.
My first son made his grand entrance on a damp January day in 2015, and for two weeks straight, we didn’t set him down. We took turns sleeping horizontally, dozing off vertically while cradling our little bundle. My mind was clouded with images of perfectly posed newborns in silly setups, but my reality was starkly different. My newborn was relentless. Every time we laid him down, he would wail, red-faced and determined. The only moments of peace came when he was fed or held, which we did tirelessly, growing increasingly frustrated.
I fed him with a latch approved by every nurse, for hours on end—sometimes two or three at a time—leaving my nipples cracked and bleeding. Looking back, I see the madness in our situation. We were merely surviving, oblivious to the fact that he was losing weight.
We chose a Family Practice that allowed us to be seen by the same doctor, forgoing the typical pediatric experience. There were no vibrant play areas or cheerful decals, just a compassionate mother of two as our physician. We were the first newborn patients in a long time, christening a baby scale that turned out to be improperly calibrated, giving us a false sense of success about his weight gain. Regular wet diapers and bowel movements reassured us, but it took two weeks for us to discover that he was actually two pounds under his birth weight. The weight of that realization still sits heavy in my stomach.
Eventually, I was referred to a lactation consultant. As I entered the hospital basement office, I felt ragged and terrified. Together, we weighed my son, and the numbers that appeared shattered my heart into pieces. I don’t remember the exact figures, but they screamed “failure” in my mind. I was horrified—how could I have let this happen? Mary, the consultant, looked directly into my eyes filled with tears and anguish and assured me, “You are a wonderful mother, and we’re going to get your baby fed.” Although we were on the brink of needing hospitalization, she helped us feed him formula with a tiny syringe and my pinky finger. As he consumed that long-awaited nourishment, his eyes widened in relief. For the first time in 14 days, he slept like a newborn should.
In the weeks that followed, I continued to meet with Mary, supplementing my son’s feeding with formula while we worked on breastfeeding. We discovered he was only transferring .3 ounces of milk from each breast during a 30-minute session. I pumped diligently for four and a half months, hoping to overcome this perceived failure. We learned he had a tongue tie that required a procedure three hours away, but we decided against it. Instead, I channeled my shame into finding solutions.
By this point, my milk supply dwindled, and no amount of herbal remedies could fix it. I gave him breast milk first, feeling a sense of pride for every drop, and then supplemented with formula. The balance shifted from mostly breast milk to a half-and-half mix and eventually to my milk merely supplementing his formula feeds. I felt the inner turmoil as I pumped, grappling with feelings of inadequacy. I relaxed when he drank my milk, yet tensed at the thought of him consuming formula as a replacement.
Now, I recognize that formula was crucial for my child’s survival, yet the shame I felt was profound and irrational. I searched for validation and support but found myself isolated in my feelings of failure. I longed for a fellow mother who had faced the same struggles, but instead, I was left feeling alone in my shame.
One afternoon at the coffee shop, I saw a glimpse of hope with my second son, who exhibited many of the same patterns. This time, we quickly sought help from consultants. He underwent procedures to fix his ties, but his milk transfer remained minimal, and we returned to pumping. I refused to repeat this cycle of shame. I didn’t need to redeem myself. I packed away the pump to make space for a more nourishing feeding experience. I shed tears of grief as I let go of the idea of breastfeeding, prompting me to reflect on why I had such a strong desire to nurse in the first place.
That summer, I sat on the bed with my youngest, savoring a peaceful moment. He was about four months old, and I nursed him for a brief 10 minutes, fulfilling a personal desire to connect. As he latched on, gazing up at me with sparkling eyes, the moment felt perfect. His gummy smile melted my grief, and in that embrace, I knew I was ready to move on from breastfeeding for good.
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In summary, my journey through motherhood has taught me that breastfeeding is not the only path to nurturing a child. The bond I share with my sons transcends the method of feeding, and understanding that has been incredibly liberating.