Knocked Up : nursing

Adventures in Milk Production

knockedup — Wed, 11 Nov 2009 14:23:00 GMT

Now that I have over a year's worth of combined milk production time, between both boys, I feel like I'm something of a lactation specialist. So let me share what I've learned with you, the sort of things that I did not read in the La Leche League manual:

1. The Eating/Milk Connection

You are what you eat. Thus, your milk is what you eat, and since your baby has your milk, your baby is also what you eat, and your baby's poop might smell like your dinner. You've probably heard all about eating beans and giving your baby gas, or the spicy food/fuss connection, neither of which seem to have had any effect on my nurslings. But what you eat does get into your milk, and into your baby. Even if what you eat is a chewy gob of high fructose corn syrup.

The day after Halloween, I was sitting on the floor, playing with Jonas. Something smelled sweet. Like candy. It seemed to be coming from Jonas' rear. Had Axel shoved some of his candy down his brother's diaper to save it for later? Did Jonas decide to do some late night Trick-or-Treating of his own? I opened up the diaper to check and, instead of finding a shiny yellow plastic package, I found mushy yellow poo.

Poo that smelled exactly like Swedish Fish.

Exactly like the Swedish Fish I'd gobbled up the night before. The Swedish Fish that went from my mouth to my stomach to my milk to my baby to his poop.

Yeah, it was both creepy and delightful. If you've got to change a poopy diaper, it's a little easier if the air is filled with the scent of gummy red candy.

Though I have eaten beets, they did not turn my milk red, as I'd heard they would - that one seems to be an urban lactation legend. But I have experienced firsthand the interaction between candy and breastmilk. I think I might make Swedish Fish a regular part of my lactating mother's diet, right along with the prenatal vitamins and organic apples.

2. The Milk Production Excuse

Nursing is much better than homework-eating dogs. I wish I'd discovered this earlier. A telemarketer calls, and I say, "I'm sorry, I've got to go. I'm making dinner for my son." There's no protesting, no "Please, just give me one minute to tell you about the super terrific Blasto Vac."

It could be any time of day, and this would be true. The thing about breastfeeding is that you're always making your baby's next meal. Therefore, you've always got an excuse about why you need to hang up the phone. I think I'm going to keep on using this one for the next dozen years. People don't seem to question baby-related excuses, especially when you throw in a word that makes many people uncomfortable, like breast.

3. Milk expression will occur in the strangest places.

When Axel was tiny, I tried to confine nursing and pumping to private, calm spots. I avoided being out of the house when I thought he might get hungry. I tried to pump behind closed doors in my office, further barricaded behind a nursing cover and a wall of bags, because the blinds on my office windows are wimpy. I told myself that I would make sure I didn't have to nurse in public, not because I was against public nursing but because of my own discomfort. Well, life, as they say, happens. Eventually, I had to nurse him on a plane, in a (parked) car, in a house, with a mouse - our own Green Eggs & Ham lactation adventure.

With Jonas, I started out having to be a more public nurser. Axel needed to get out of the house, and I needed to take him and take the constantly hungry baby, too. While I try to be discreet and remain draped in a nursing cover, I've found that I've gotten surprisingly used to potential exposure in public. Now I've pumped in the jury commisionner's office (lactating isn't quite a good enough excuse to get out of jury duty), in my car, and in various office building bathrooms. Baby's got to eat, so a mama has to get creative.

Jonas is earnestly training for a staring role as Baby Zombie King in the next George Romero flick, drooling heavily and gnawing on his knuckles with as much ferocity as can be mustered when you weigh less than the cat. Time for another milk feast.

Weaning

knockedup — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 16:54:00 GMT

Ouch. Double ouch. Over the last few weeks, we gradually replaced nursing or pumping sessions with formula. After nine months of 99% mama's milk, the challenges of pumping for an hour a day while still getting work done, combined with other factors, made me decide to move Axel from the boob to the bottle and sippy cup. On Monday morning, Axel nursed for the last time. It's been 48 hours without milke expression and damn does my chest hurt.

I admire - and envy - those mothers who are able to stick with it. Just 36% of mothers make it to six months. I was lucky enough to have the support of family, a great lacation consultant, a private place to use the dreaded pump at work, and a body/baby that could make it work, with some guidance and training. If I were at home with Axel, I think we'd still be nursing. I've got mixed feelings about it all - the working, the mothering, staying at home, boobs and bottles and babies. Formula is seriously expensive. Thought I hated nursing in public, and could never get comfortable with the possibility of showing that much skin to strangers even if it was for the nourishment of my child, it (after lots of work in the first four months) was easy to roll out of bed, wander sleepily down to Axel's room, scoop him up and bring him back to bed with me for an early morning nursing/cat napping session. But it's also easy to hand Axel a sippy cup to drink from/bang on the floor while I make dinner. He doesn't seem to miss nursing.

As I said, it hurts. Seriously. I don't remember the inital postpartum engorgement aching this much - probably because my whole body felt like I'd been walloped with a bag of bricks and so one more ache wasn't noticeable. The whole neck to waist area feels fragile; I don't want my husband to touch my arm, let alone hug me, because he might bump into my chest. Awhile back, I went mountain biking with my father - and, while I am moderately outdoorsy and athletic, I am no good on two wheels and have been told I pedal like a first grader. Biking on a steep dirt trail was not a wise choice. On the way down a hill, my tire caught on a branch and I dove over the handlebars and landed in a rock pile. The left side of my body bruised and oozed and bloodied, and was swollen and tender for weeks. I crept gingerly around, trying to keep my pants from touching my leg. This is a similar sort of pain - less than labor, less than when I broke my arm in two places, less than a rotator cuff tear, but enough to make me generally prickly.

I made the mistake of strapping Axel on with the Baby Bjorn. Owwwww. Then, during a diaper change, he kicked me right in the boob. Yes, there was some swearing in the nursery. I tried to go on a run, and made it a mile before I had to turn back due to boob cramps - that was a first. Last night, I took a shower; that helped, while I was in the shower, but the aches came back right after I got out. Then I draped a bag of frozen asparagus and carrots across my chest. Mixed vegetables eased the pain, but I can't walk around with frozen produce duct taped to my chest. Or can I? Maybe I can affix ice packs to my bra and then wind bubble wrap around myself. Add a few martinis and I may have found the solution to all that ails my boobs. If I wear a baggy shirt, maybe no one will notice all the extra padding....

Food and Fears

knockedup — Wed, 02 Jul 2008 02:53:00 GMT

My son is in danger of starving. He's going to waste away to nothing but a set of big blue-to-hazel eyes and wild light blond hair. Yesterday, at childcare, he only drank two ounces of milk. Today, he cut that to an ounce and a half. He spent the days showing off, crawling around the room by putting down his right hand, then left, then pushing off his left foot. Hand, hand, foot, repeat, until he'd criss-crossed the soft mat and the not so soft carpet. I think he's trying to dig a groove in the shape of a 747 around the exersaucers and bouncy seats. He has no time for nourishment - he's got important tricks to practice, a substitute teacher to seduce with his big grin and drool, and a roomfull of babies to impress. Soon he'll lose a few of the slow-to-come pounds he's put on. If it keeps up, he won't just crawl out of his pants, as he often does now; they'll fall off him the minute I pull them up.

Perhaps I'm overreacting. I am his mother. Food and health-related overreactions are six line downs in the job description. He's a wee boy. It's true that he chowed down on oatmeal, peas, and yams at dinner. It's true that he nursed well morning and evening both days. It's true that he took a few mouthfuls of solids while at daycare - but far less than the jars he'd been gobbling while on vacation. It's true that he just came back from a week and a half trip, and so he hasn't been at childcare. It's true that he's still been on the cheerful side, even though the stranger anxiety seems to be popping up and he sobbed both mornings when I left him. It's true that he's somehow got enough energy to investigate heating vents all over every room.

It's also true that he's never loved the bottle. His father and other caregivers have had to spend an hour to get him to take 4 ounces. There was a time when he drank about fifteen ounces during eight hours away from me, but only on a few occasions months ago. More often, he had five to twelve (on a good day), and, lately, he's been dropping that range to a max of ten. While he's had a few ounces of formula here and there, most of it has still been breastmilk. He's refused a few formula-only bottles, and, since he'd been consuming less, I've been able to (barely) keep up with his consumption, so he hasn't gone off mama's milk as much as I thought he would. Honestly, he's always been finicky about nursing, too - and the past milk avoidance fuels my concern. He seems to have a love/hate/sometimes indifferent relationship with liquids. He's not a drinker. He's too grown up for milk.

That said, an ounce and a half of milk and a few baby-sized mouthfuls of food doesn't seem to be enough to sustain a crawling machine. I'm left wondering what's going on, and in a watch-and-wait and try not to be too neurotic situation. Is the low intake a temporary dip connected with a new skill? Is it because, while on vacation, he nursed 98% of the time, and had been almost bottle-free for a little under two weeks? Is it a little-known side effect of the baby jetlag (which hasn't otherwise affected him)? Is this big fluctuation totally normal? Is he giving up the milk because he's now on solids? And if that's it, why isn't he eating solids like he did on vacation? Did the salty sea air bump up his appetite? Do mashed in Colorado bananas taste worse than mashed in Hawaii bananas? Do I just have a more tantalizing spoon technique than the ladies at his childcare center? Does he need a Vegas-style bottle with an umbrella to make him a drinker? After two days, it's not panicking me enough that I'm calling the doctor. I'll be able to sleep tonight (assuming the child lets me). Still, I'd love some advice.