But when it comes to breastfeeding, those same people who trumpet a woman's right to choose on the front end of the pregnancy also act as if, once the baby's drawn breath, there's no choice, no sovereignty of the body anymore.
Lady, if you brought that child to term, you must breastfeed. You don't have the right to choose what you do with your boobs.
Let me tell you a little bit about my experience: I was 40 years old, fresh off a month of bedrest. My breasts have always been plenty "full," but they were not -- they were never -- full of milk. I starved my son for the first five days of his life trying to offer him a nearly dry teat.
And then, AND THEN, the lactation consultant came. She made remarks about my nipples, their quality and type, even their ethnicity.
Seriously.
She encouraged me to use the breast pump to stimulate milk production when my child was not feeding instead of, you know, holding and bonding with my baby or taking a nap.
She even suggested that I use some weird contraption involving a catheter threaded from a bottle with formula or, preferably, expressed milk, alongside my own breast down to my nipple and into my son's mouth so that, even if he was not getting milk from the actual boob, he was still sucking it through the effing catheter. (You should imagine me typing really hard on that last bit there.)
Because the only way to bond with your child is if he's sucking your teat.
Seriously?
I went along with the pumping-all-the-damned-time-thing, but the catheter was a bridge too far.
I'm sure the lactation consultant felt I was an utter failure for having rejected the ridiculous catheter trick.
What not a single professional said to me -- not the pediatrician, not the lactation consultant, not the OB/GYNs -- was that it was okay to let go.
No, the breastfeeding was too important: More important than me getting rest. More important than me sitting and holding my baby. The agenda was more important than me.
And I bought into it. I pumped incessantly. I worried about there not being enough milk. I gloried in the mere six ounces a day of anemic breast milk that I brought home from work each day. (Until, at age six months, my son rejected both boob and breast-milky-like substance, mercifully freeing me from that sucking machine.)
If I had to do it all over again, I'd tell that consultant to walk on by so fast. I would enjoy my maternity leave. I would actually sleep when the baby sleeps. I would allow that having a newborn is stressful enough without adding to the stress by trying to make happen what was clearly not going to happen.
I would relieve myself of the daily humiliation of half-disrobing in my office four times a day to pump while I worked. I would also relieve my co-workers of the awkwardness of finding my bag of sterilized pump parts in the microwave where I'd forgotten them after a harried pumping session.
I would give myself a break, even when no one else would. And in so doing, I think, I think, I would have been a more present and better rested mommy of a new human. (But who knows, right? Because newborns are challenging even when no breast pumps are present.)
One thing I know for sure: I wouldn't feel betrayed and bullied by a system that means too well. Breastfeeding is not so important to the bonding process that we need to pretend that we're doing it by means of a catheter. That's just nuts. I know the intentions are good, but someone needs to say, "Enough is enough, if it's not working, use the formula, lady. It will be okay. You'll still love your kid and your kid will be fine."
Because new mothers are as vulnerable as newborn babies. We want to do everything just right. We don't want to screw up. We're terrified we'll accidentally harm this precious gift we've been given, our baby girls and boys. Someone in the breastfeeding establishment needs to say, "You tried. It's okay to quit."
Hey, if your boobs work well, and breastfeeding your child is a breeze, more power to you. I am envious. It wasn't easy for me. I wanted it to be, but it wasn't.
But if you're having trouble, if you're feeling wrung out, if you feel like a slave to the breast pump, if you just don't want to do it anymore or at all (even though your boobs work fine), it's okay to let go. I give you permission. They're your boobs. It's your choice.
Let me tell you a little bit about my experience: I was 40 years old, fresh off a month of bedrest. My breasts have always been plenty "full," but they were not -- they were never -- full of milk. I starved my son for the first five days of his life trying to offer him a nearly dry teat.
And then, AND THEN, the lactation consultant came. She made remarks about my nipples, their quality and type, even their ethnicity.
Seriously.
She encouraged me to use the breast pump to stimulate milk production when my child was not feeding instead of, you know, holding and bonding with my baby or taking a nap.
She even suggested that I use some weird contraption involving a catheter threaded from a bottle with formula or, preferably, expressed milk, alongside my own breast down to my nipple and into my son's mouth so that, even if he was not getting milk from the actual boob, he was still sucking it through the effing catheter. (You should imagine me typing really hard on that last bit there.)
Because the only way to bond with your child is if he's sucking your teat.
Seriously?
I went along with the pumping-all-the-damned-time-thing, but the catheter was a bridge too far.
I'm sure the lactation consultant felt I was an utter failure for having rejected the ridiculous catheter trick.
What not a single professional said to me -- not the pediatrician, not the lactation consultant, not the OB/GYNs -- was that it was okay to let go.
No, the breastfeeding was too important: More important than me getting rest. More important than me sitting and holding my baby. The agenda was more important than me.
And I bought into it. I pumped incessantly. I worried about there not being enough milk. I gloried in the mere six ounces a day of anemic breast milk that I brought home from work each day. (Until, at age six months, my son rejected both boob and breast-milky-like substance, mercifully freeing me from that sucking machine.)
If I had to do it all over again, I'd tell that consultant to walk on by so fast. I would enjoy my maternity leave. I would actually sleep when the baby sleeps. I would allow that having a newborn is stressful enough without adding to the stress by trying to make happen what was clearly not going to happen.
I would relieve myself of the daily humiliation of half-disrobing in my office four times a day to pump while I worked. I would also relieve my co-workers of the awkwardness of finding my bag of sterilized pump parts in the microwave where I'd forgotten them after a harried pumping session.
I would give myself a break, even when no one else would. And in so doing, I think, I think, I would have been a more present and better rested mommy of a new human. (But who knows, right? Because newborns are challenging even when no breast pumps are present.)
One thing I know for sure: I wouldn't feel betrayed and bullied by a system that means too well. Breastfeeding is not so important to the bonding process that we need to pretend that we're doing it by means of a catheter. That's just nuts. I know the intentions are good, but someone needs to say, "Enough is enough, if it's not working, use the formula, lady. It will be okay. You'll still love your kid and your kid will be fine."
Because new mothers are as vulnerable as newborn babies. We want to do everything just right. We don't want to screw up. We're terrified we'll accidentally harm this precious gift we've been given, our baby girls and boys. Someone in the breastfeeding establishment needs to say, "You tried. It's okay to quit."
Hey, if your boobs work well, and breastfeeding your child is a breeze, more power to you. I am envious. It wasn't easy for me. I wanted it to be, but it wasn't.
But if you're having trouble, if you're feeling wrung out, if you feel like a slave to the breast pump, if you just don't want to do it anymore or at all (even though your boobs work fine), it's okay to let go. I give you permission. They're your boobs. It's your choice.
