The Dairy (1) is Now Closed

I've been writing this entry in my head all week. But every time I try to sit down and put the words on screen I hesitate for a myriad of reasons sensible and senseless all at once.

BooBoo is now 100% on formula. And I could not be happier.

I read a lot of stuff. (Stay with me. There is a point to this). Some at the library, more online. One of the biggest complaints my family had throughout BooBoo's (2) gestation was that I read too much and knew too much about what was going on with my body. I shouldn't have been reading so much, it would make me worry too much.

Victorian/Edwardian much? Ignorance is bliss? Reading was one of the few things I could do to maintain some semblance of control during a process that was very much out of my control.

• I was not surprised when I had to put away my lovely bras in favor of quasi-sport style bras and tanks with snaps and cutouts.
• I was not surprised to have to buy shoes that would expand enough to fit my feet during the last months of pregnancy.
• I was not surprised to find, three days after delivering BooBoo, that the shoes I had purchased in point 2 didn't fit. I left the hospital in a wheelchair, sporting socks. If it had not been December, I would have forgone the socks altogether and left barefooted.

The weeks wore on and the two of us settled into some kind of rhythm. Even though it was still taking almost an hour to nurse him. Even though I had to give him both breasts every time. Even though it continued to hurt like hell every time he nursed off my right breast (which was every time he nursed). Even though the only time he seemed to not be hungry ½ an hour after finishing was when J gave him a bottle with formula. Even though he was barely above his birth weight and J was giving a bottle every night to help him gain.

Week eight came and went. I was still getting only an hour of sleep at a time. I was becoming increasingly depressed, to the point where I was contemplating hurting myself. I was not eating. I had no time and was not hungry anyway. I resented BooBoo. I resented J.

On the Monday morning of the ninth week I spent an hour nursing BooBoo. I put him down on his play mat for a few minutes so I could get something to eat. From the kitchen I could hear him crying. He was hungry. Again. He had finished nursing only five minutes before and he was screaming as if he had never eaten at all.

And the thought of me putting him to my right breast, of experiencing another ½ hour of burning pain that had no cause, was too much. I reached for a bottle. 2 ounces of water, a scoop of formula, shake like crazy.

And BooBoo took the bottle. Hungrily, easily, happily. When he was finished he looked at me with a contented expression and feel into a comfortable sleep.

And I experienced a moment of mental and emotional peace that I had not felt in months. I decided that today was a good day to start weaning BooBoo for daycare. Pump and bottle feed during the day, nurse in the morning and at night.

It was a good plan that didn't work. I didn't produce enough milk to send what he needed to daycare. I altered the plan. Give him formula during the day, nurse in the mornings, breast milk from a bottle in the evenings.

Which worked for two weeks, until I got food poisoning and the milk supply quit altogether. Quit cold. The painful weaning that I read about? Didn't happen. I just stopped producing.

I read a lot. A lot of blog entries from other women who have quit breastfeeding because it just didn't work for a myriad of reasons. And a I read the comments, supportive and cruel. Comments from women who were able to successfully breastfeed their children for a year plus yet got that sometimes it just doesn't work. Cruel comments from “lactation activists” (3) about sucking it up and soldiering on, no matter the mental, physical, emotional cost.

Since I stopped, being with BooBoo has been a joy. It is a joy to get up at 5:00am, while he is still sleeping, so I can be showered and dressed when he wakes. It is a joy to listen to him cry (he is not a morning person) as I change and dress him for the day. To make funny faces and silly noises in the off chance that he will smile. To hear him learning how to laugh.

And I know, deep in that part of me that just knows, that I would not have felt this if I had continued trying to do something that was fundamentally not working.

Thank you, from every fiber of my being, to those who offered support through emails and comments in these past weeks. Your kindness amazes me.

There has been one surprise. I was surprised to discover that my very flat feet are now flatter and the first few steps I take whenever I get up from a chair hurt.

(1) Quoth Jeff to a friend “We have a dairy in the back of our fridge” when I was still pumping out a decent amount every day. A very apt description.
(2) The Alien has graduated to the nickname BooBoo.
(3) I refuse to invoke Godwin's law in an entry about breastfeeding. Not going to do it.