Bad Parent: Straight to the Bottle
I chose not to breastfeed.
by Tricia Grissom
August 11, 2007
My husband couldn't do any of it for me. The experts warned against giving supplementary bottles, claiming the baby would become accustomed to the fake nipple. I doubted this. But I didn't know if I could stand losing to the synthetic version of me, so I got up every two hours most nights.
In the evolutionary sense, I felt like a total failure. My genetic profile was too weak to survive. My DNA did not deserve to go on. My son was losing I.Q. points every minute because I couldn't squirt out enough nourishment to grow his brain cells efficiently. He could have been Secretary of State, but because of me he would work in a video store.
And the pumping wasn't working. I called the lactation consultant again, and she suggested a medication that might improve milk production. I filled the prescription with total despair. I took one chalky pill, and then I stopped. I couldn't do it anymore. I put away the breast pump, and I threw away the pills. I was done. It had been decided. I was a bad mother, and I was going to embrace it. What was next? Soda in the baby bottle or putting him to sleep face down? Decisions, decisions.
I felt guilty every day. But slowly, I also started to feel like a person again. I was possessive of my breasts now. It was time for us to get reacquainted. I got out my non-nursing bra and penned up my breasts for an entire day. No flaps were unflapped, no snaps unsnapped. On his new formula regimen, my son fell into a sound sleep that lasted five blissful hours.
I went out to lunch and lingered over dessert instead of circling home like Without the miracle of modern formula, my kids would have died.a mother pigeon with hungry mouths to feed. There was room on my lap for my first child. She had not adjusted well to having a baby brother permanently attached to my chest. Now I could make it up to her and convince her that the baby wasn't a space alien sucking the life out of her mother. She stopped peeing on the floor of her room to get my attention. All was better in the world.
And one day, when my mother walked in holding my son, I was struck by an unfamiliar urge. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to hold him and just be his mother. Not the mother who had to feed him, but the mother who just wanted to look at how beautiful he was. I actually wanted him in my arms instead of wanting to hide from him.
Later I felt guilty about my breastfeeding breakdown. Without the miracle of modern formula, my kids would have died. I didn't have what it took to ensure the survival of my species. But years later, I realized the truth. When my level of suffering became so great that I considered faking a spontaneous coma to get some rest, it was much better for my son to have a plugged in, adoring mother than a milkshake dispenser. I didn't feel guilty anymore.
I hear the pro-breastfeeding camp mission to new mothers, and I smile serenely. Nutritionally deprived my children may be, but I can look them in their I.Q.-challenged little faces and not want to sell them to the gypsies. And I can sleep with that.
©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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