Guest Post: The Day I Quit

Hi friends! In spirit of supporting our fellow moms and insta community, I am going to be featuring guest bloggers periodically who will share their experiences. Meet Christina (and baby Gavin!), who is a mom from Oakland, California. She reached out to share her beautiful and very honest experience on breastfeeding.

Finding out I was pregnant with my first born was one of the most exciting days of my life. I envisioned all that one does when they find out they’re expecting. On the top of that list for me was breastfeeding. I questioned whether or not I would be able to since I had a long list of family members that struggled, including my mom and sister but kept my hopes high and stood by my desire. However, another plan was in the cards for us. The 4th trimester, as I like to call it was the hardest, most raw and vulnerable time I had ever experienced in my life.

My first born had torticollis, five ties that needed revision (which we revised), extreme reflux (where he spit up, some days, close to 50 times), colic and a tight mouth. I was also advised not to pump by an ill informed Lactation counselor, so my milk never fully came in (regardless of all the herbs, massaging, teas, oils and pumping I had done). I tried a supplemental nursing tube, nipple shields, different positions, pillows and a host of positive affirmations. I was pumping up to every 2 hours. Sometimes, I would try to get in an extrapping session, as if I was training for the pumping olympics. It almost became an addiction; to see how much milk I could get the next time (which, sadly, never exceeded 1.5 ounces). In between, I would try to mother. That is, after all the appointments for craniosacral therapy, pediatric chiropractic, Lactation counselors, dentists for the tongue ties and pediatric appointments. Looking back, I am shocked that not one person said, “but are you enjoying motherhood?” I was so focused on breastfeeding and had the blind support of everyone around me that I, nor anyone else asked, “at what cost?”

Around eight weeks postpartum, there was a turning point.  I had finished a pumping session, utterly exhausted from getting 20-40min increments of sleep so I could furiously keep my small supply up, I was moving my son from the living room to our bedroom. In my haze of exhaustion, the rocker slipped from my hands and out fell my precious baby. I spiraled into panic and tears. Delirious from exhaustion, paranoid from what I now know as my postpartum anxiety and guilt ridden that I could have harmed the single person I loved most in this world. I frantically called my husband, sobbing, who advised me to call his pediatrician. I agreed, only to hang up with my husband and panic that, if I called the pediatrician, they would surely call CPS on me for abuse and being an unfit mother, my child would be taken away from me. I sat, staring at my baby who was calm and seemed unscathed from the, might I add, short fall from the rocker to the floor. He had a small patch of skin that was slightly red on his cheek but otherwise, seemed none the wiser. Still starring, trying to pull myself out of my panic and paranoia, realizing the story I had told myself was not only irrational but exasperated by my exhaustion and inability to keep up with the unrealistic expectations I had thrown on myself. I realized I was choosing breastfeeding over mothering. I became a shell of myself to try to fulfill this roll that society and myself had made. A mother who loves their child will try everything they can to give them the best start at life. Coming to the realization that I wasn’t actually doing that. I wasn’t enjoying being a mother, I wasn’t soaking up the sweet moments of my baby sleeping on me because I had to put him down immediately after a feed so I could pump. After that scare, I backed off on pumping and trying to breastfeed. Eventually, to stop pumping all together four months postpartum. 

Anticipating the arrival of our second son was equally as exciting. It had been over a year and I was able, through therapy and other healing modalities, to see how my breastfeeding journey really played a deep roll in what was undiagnosed postpartum anxiety and depression. This time, I made a promise to my baby, my family and most importantly, myself, to choose to be a mother than try to breastfeed because “breast is best.” I had high hopes when my second son was born. He latched a few times, though not right away. I started pumping immediately and soon my milk came in. We sought advice and guidance from two amazing IBCLC’s (International Board Certified Lactation Consultants), who helped detect a pretty tight tie (that the dentist would confirm could even affect my son’s speech later on in life) to which we got revised, I tried nipple shields again, power pumping, herbs and making sure I pumped every 3 hours. Putting my son to the breast felt like slow torture; I would feel relaxed at first to only tense at the immediate grimace and scream of my son. I would stop, take a breath, regroup and try again. This went on for a few days until I spoke out loud to my husband, what I felt was a dirty little secret, “I don’t want to breastfeed. I want to quit trying.” Saying that felt so empowering but at the same time, like such a failure. I had wanted to feel the connection and closeness of breastfeeding. I wanted to have that experience as a woman and mother. It felt like a wright of passage and yet, here I was, relieved, almost in tears at the relief, that I was going to stop trying. My husband fully supporting me, my midwife commending me for having healthy boundaries and to this time, choosing my son and myself over breastfeeding, I quit trying. Every feed after that, was this renewed sense of joy. Looking at my perfect baby, focusing on the beautiful life my body made, I was able to enjoy the moment, enjoy the love and feel completely engulfed in providing for my baby without feeling the dread of failure and anxiety. Although I made the scary and courageous decision to quit breastfeeding, I was still pumping to keep my supply up, to be able to provide for my son. He seemed pretty uncomfortable after every feed and I had a slight feeling that it was probably due to my diet (even though I had also gotten donor breast milk and he would scream after that, as well). After a 10 hour screaming session (only broken for feeds and a 30 minute nap) I decided to listen to my intuition and try formula. We prepared the bottle, exhausted and in tears ourselves, fed it to baby and crossed every part of our body that this would agree with him. Magic! After he ate, he peacefully drifted off to sleep. Woke up hours later, we tried again. He seemed comfortable and happy! It was amazing and such a relief that my sweet baby wasn’t screaming and getting the rest he so desperately needed.

After a few weeks of trying to keep up with pumping, the demands of a newborn and 20 month old, I realized that, again, I was riding a slippery slope. Noticing the exhaustion, the feelings of failure, the emotions and tears. I had enough. I decided I was going to actively dry up my milk supply and formula feed my baby, 100%. This decision, like the decision to quit breastfeeding, was an empowering one. It also came with grief, guilt and sadness. I truly believe that every mother does the best she can. Sometimes, we do too much, even if it’s harming us. There’s a reason why the word Mother derived from an old English word of modor; meaning to take care of, because we take every piece of ourself and pour it into our children. So many times, we forget that caring for our children, starts with caring for ourself. I’m surprised at how proud I am in myself for formula feeding my baby. I’m equally as proud to be actively shutting off my milk supply and having quit breastfeeding. It means I am healthy, it means I am giving the best life to my children and most of all, it means I am a Mother.