Bad Parent: Straight to the Bottle
I chose not to breastfeed.
by Tricia Grissom
August 11, 2007
After my second child was born, I decided I wanted my boobs back. It was a long journey, learning I deserved my boobs. Everyone had been telling me they belonged to my babies since my daughter was born three years ago. I tried breastfeeding her, but stopped when she didn't gain weight. I felt less guilty about my first attempt than my second effort with my son. After all, he wasn't losing weight yet — no more than a normal newborn, anyway. He started at a healthy 9 lbs 7 oz, so he wasn't exactly wasting away.
And breastfeeding was apparently the pinnacle of motherhood. All the mothering tomes I read disagreed on many things — co-sleeping, solid foods, how to remove beans from the nose — but on one subject they were unanimous: if you didn't breastfeed, you were obviously a lazy bon-bon-eating mommy who couldn't be bothered to properly nourish your baby. How could anyone possibly want anything but the best for her baby? And indisputably, the best thing was breastfeeding.
But I hated it. I didn't want to hold my son anymore because it was a job, not an adventure in getting to know him. And the sleep, my god the sleep! I craved it like an addict. I snuck naps sitting on the bathroom toilet. I caressed my bed longingly as I walked by, buried my nose in the covers and imagined a time machine that would let me sleep for three days solid without causing my son to starve. I shambled around the house while my three-year-old tried to understand who this zombie was who used to read her books and tickle her. And why the zombie always had a hungry, crying appendage attached to her chest.
I was caught up in the whole vicious circle: baby always wanting to nurse, me not having enough milk, me not havingI felt like a 24-hour grocery store at the apocalypse — understocked and trying to keep the customers from rioting. enough milk, baby always wanting to nurse. I felt like a 24-hour grocery store at the apocalypse — understocked and trying to keep the customers from rioting.
My lactation consultant — a warm, sympathetic, patient woman — calmly talked me down as I sobbed into the phone in my doctor's private office while my three-year-old destroyed every anatomical model in sight. I gently chastised my daughter to stop, held my newborn, clutched the phone to my ear and tried to figure out what was wrong with me that I couldn't manage to do this thing women had done for thousands of years. The lactation consultant praised me for being so patient with my daughter. She didn't know what I was actually thinking: I can get rid of my first child. After all, I have a spare now, right?
All those burgeoning post-pregnancy hormones rose up to make me a blubbering mess. I sat in the office crying, holding, distracting, dissolving. The consultant suggested buying a breast pump and pumping every four hours to increase milk production. So, I bought the expensive pump at the medical supply store, even though we could barely afford it. Every night, I tried to feed my son as he woke every two to three hours, and then got up again to pump on the four-hour schedule.
©2007 Tricia Grissom and Nerve Media
About the Author
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Tricia Grissom is a writer and college English teacher who lives
near St. Louis, MO. She has written for Missouri Life and
Fiery-Foods & BBQ Magazine. She is married with two children.
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