Breast is Best?

I am writing to you from the depths of new parenthood.  I have been trying to update the ol' blog because there are so many great things to tell you.  I could write to you about how my sweet, very laid back husband was up, dressed, and practically shoving me into the car within three minutes of me saying, "uh Robby..."

Or I could explain to you how awesome my little baby boy is and how for the first few days I cried every evening because he was about to be a day older.  Or I could even narrate the excitement and milestones we have achieved in baby boy's first three weeks of life.  But instead, I am going to tell you about my biggest accomplishment in life to date: Breastfeeding, or more specifically my utter failure at it.

*Per my usual caution with offending others, I want to make the following disclaimer: I completely agree that Breast is Best, that for some it is this awesome bonding experience, and that it just works for some really great people.  But, this is my blog, my story, and my opinion so if I offend you or you think I may offend you, please quit reading.

Okay, now, back to my first beautiful failure as a mother.  Lets start at the beginning - how as soon as you push this little person out of you, all parts of your body are up for open discussion with the outside world.  Suddenly the state of my nipples, my milk, my boobs, even my hoohah were the topic of dinner time conversation.  And if you weren't lucky enough to get one of my sweet husbands daily updates on the state of my nips, well let me break it down for you - they were miserable. As were my boobs.  As was my child. 

We just weren't clicking - I had infections in both breasts which hurt like someone was literally shoving hot irons into my soul.  Better yet, my child alternated between screaming what I was pretty sure was the "someone save me from this idiot shoving her boob in my face over and over" scream and sucking the ever loving life out of me - which felt like he was attempting to extract those hot irons out of my soul.

So fast forward through a lactation consultant, a doctor who is a breastfeeding specialist, hours and hours on end attached to a breast pump that also was attempting to suck out my soul, and one really, really bad morning in my kitchen. 

Robby walks in the door from going to the gym, and I am sitting in our kitchen crying, (more like sobbing) "I-I-I can't do this anymore! Waaaahh"  By this point I think he is starting to get used to my sudden, unprovoked emotional breakdowns which are on a daily basis it seems, so I can tell he is proceeding with caution.  I see his moment of hesitation and pounce, "I-I-I  want to switch to formula but I-I-I don't want to be a bad mother. Waaaaah."

It hurts everytime I feed, I dread everytime my child wakes up because I know what comes next, I feel like I am trapped in this house stuck on an endless two hour cycle, my boobs are so big they are literally toppling me over, and by God, I am just tired of being a dairy cow, needing to be milked.

But, the thoughts of my child in a therapists chair years from now complaining of how I didn't love him enough to pump through the pain flash through my head.  Then, because I am glutton for punishment, I had to google formula feeding and read all the comments from the breast is best Nazis who basically solidified my thoughts that my child would be scarred emotionally, physically, and mentally if I switched to formula.  

And then it hit me, I am an idiot.  Millions of babies grow up on formula and if all of them were detrimentally stunted from their lack of breast milk the Earth would be full of bumbling Neanderthals - which is not a huge stretch of the imagination - but I mean hell, I was a formula baby, and so was my husband, and so far we have managed to spend minimal time in the therapist chair. 

So, with a glimmer of hope, I shut down the endless google searches, hopped in the car with a new found purpose, and drove as fast as I could to buy the biggest head of cabbage I could find. And here I sit, three days later, with a bra full of cabbage leaves that is actually cooking on me, and smelling the house up of stewed cabbage, cautiously optimistic that the fun bags may not actually explode, and saying:

I am a formula feeding momma who is not sorry.  I raise my white flag proudly and say: I gave up.  I failed at breastfeeding and me, my husband, and my baby, are much happier for it.  So, boil the water, pour up the bottle, and, for me, I think I will have a nice, cold glass of pinot grigio to celebrate.