Nursing, amamantar, dar el pecho, breastfeeding – our bodies have been doing it for centuries. We provide nourishment to our children and, in some cases, to those who are not our blood as well. I always knew that I wanted to be a mother. And I always knew I wanted to breastfeed. I desperately wanted to feel that almost primal connection with my future child. But I had no idea.
I had no idea how hard it would be.
I had no idea that sometimes it just doesn’t happen.
I had no idea that it could affect my mental health.
I had no idea that there was such a learning curve.
It was supposed to be natural and beautiful.
Like so many other things in motherhood, these things were not spoken about. Every generation has looked at it differently. Every culture is different. “Formula first,” “breast is best,” FED is best.
My journey started long before I was pregnant. I was the last of my close friends to have a child, and I saw many of the most intimate parts of motherhood firsthand. I was sitting across the sofa with a cup of coffee in my hand, chatting away while a mom opened her robe to feed her toddler. I was staring at my phone while my friend shared her struggle and decision to end her breastfeeding journey because she couldn’t produce enough for her baby, even after trying all the tips and tricks. I listened to another share how they wanted formula from the start and had no desire to attempt to nurse. I was privileged to walk beside these warriors and hear their stories.
How did I still not know?
Y Aqui estoy.
I am in the hospital room. Skin to skin. A doula by my side to help us get our first latch. How am I supposed to hold her? If I do what I’ve seen on TV, I’d suffocate her. Football hold? A large chest’s best friend.
Success!
We are home now, and my mom is bringing me a hot meal when I freak out. My chest hurts. My nipples look weird. What is happening to my body!? She starts laughing. “Mija, that’s your milk coming in.”
Here we are. Nineteen months later and with so many breastfeeding stories to tell.
It wasn’t all easy. It was mostly difficult.
I don’t want to give bottles too early to avoid nipple confusion (it turns out that’s a myth), but Hermanita decided to get sick at two weeks old. We had an extended hospital stay where I needed to pump to keep my supply up and bottle feed to try to get her to drink anything.
I’m upstairs at her grandmother’s house on Noche Buena, sobbing alone while rocking her. She doesn’t want to nurse. She’s fighting me. I’m not ready for this journey to end so early. Why can’t I do this?
I’m sitting at the pediatrician’s office and being told that I should consider adding formula because they weren’t happy with her rate of weight gain. But that’s all they told me.
A friend hears my stress and asks, “Did they check her for a lip tie? Have you spoken to an IBCLC? Are you wearing the right pump phalanges?”
Uyyyy, calmate!
Where do I even start? And then, she gave me the best resource I came across.
Baby Cafe is a free national resource connecting you with a board-certified lactation consultant. They did weighted feeds, checked for ties, evaluated our latch, and all the things. But what I left my first appointment with was this lesson.
Breastfeeding is teamwork. It’s you and baby working together for the end goal. If it’s not working, evaluate why and find the solution, and if it’s not working for one of you, it’s not working for either.
Latch, holding position, mom’s mental health; all the things come together to create your journey- whatever that may look like.
But now I’m sitting across from my best friend, my sister.
“Prisc. Are you truly okay? Why are you so against giving her formula? I’m really worried about you both.”
You see, I have PPD. My daughter was growing well, just not as quickly as the Drs wanted. I did not have a chunky baby with all the delicious rolls. I tried telling them that she had acid reflux, but no one listened until I showed them a list of all the tips, tricks, and home remedies I tried.
But this friend answered my crying phone call after every doctor appointment. She was the one I texted when I was stressing over my pumping output when I returned to work.
She knew she was the only one I’d genuinely listen to.
I couldn’t tell her then, and to this day, I can’t tell you why I never opened that can of formula still sitting in my cabinet.
I was stubborn.
Maybe I should have. Maybe I would’ve saved myself from tears and stress. Maybe I would have that chunky baby. I wholeheartedly never judge another mother for giving their children formula.
But I judged myself.
I told myself all these stories and lies about what it would mean to add a scoop of formula to my daughter’s bottle. I can’t even formulate some of them into thought; I just viewed them as negative for myself.
Pride can get in our way. In motherhood, just as in everything else.
I don’t regret my choices. I was able to breastfeed until we both were ready to stop at 19 months. But I wish I had been kinder to that mom of a 5-month-old who was torturing herself to pump and nurse and eat well and cut out dairy, all to keep this image of the perfect breastfeeding journey.
