La Leche
Alternate title: Controversy in a D-cup
The Son is still breastfed. Yup, sixteen and a half months, and no sign of the end in sight.
You could probably tell from my previous post that I have very strong feelings about breastfeeding, and I get asked often by well intentioned relatives when I am going to wean him, and the answer is I plan on letting him wean himself when he is ready. People may think that is weird so let me tell you a little story.
The Husband and I tried to get pregnant for several months, and I got my first positive pregnancy test on Christmas Eve. We read everything we could get our hands on to prepare us, attended every class offered. Before he was born I thought that I was as prepared as possible to be the best mom I could.
I had a C-section and was on some pretty hardcore drugs after his birth; they may have had something to do with the mishmash emotions that I felt. I remember the first time I saw him thinking he looked exactly like his dad, and feeling excited and terrified, but not this huge wash of all consuming love that everyone said I would feel. I held him and waves of “awh, he is so cute”, “oh, he is amazing” were intermingled with thoughts of “Holy Shit, what have I done to my life?”, and “I have no idea what the hell I am doing.” Looking back on it, I had a pretty severe post-partum depression (and it was not going to be cured by vitamins, no matter what Tom Cruise and his fellow aliens say.) Through it all I keep thinking that at least he was getting breast milk. At least I could do that right.
Somewhere my head got all twisted and even though I was doing EVERY SINGLE THING that I was supposed to do to raise a happy healthy child, I thought I was doing a bad job. We have all of these rules and routines and philosophies. We were overachieving parents of an infant. The Son had far exceeded each and every milestone developmentally and physically. But still, according to my brain I was just as bad of a mom as some crack whore who leaves their kids alone in a nasty trailer to be watched by heaps of dirty laundry and rats. (um, we do have the heaps of dirty laundry, but no rats.) I thought that as long as I was breast feeding then I was at least doing one good thing for my baby.
He had nothing but breast milk for the first six months of his life. At about ten months he had exactly twelve formula bottles when he was in daycare because I did not have enough frozen milk to give him. Those days I felt like such a failure because I was not able to provide for my son. I beat myself up because I knew that breast milk was what was best for him and that I was too lazy to stay up all night to pump enough for him to eat at school. In other words, Hey You was crazy.
After several months, and throw in some serious job stress, these feelings turned from anxiety to thoughts like, “He has the world’s best dad, and I have life insurance, maybe if I could store up enough frozen milk, they would just be better off if I drove off this bridge.” Every tiny ache or fever or rash sent me to Web MD to figure out which fatal disease The Son or I had. In the course of a year we had ALS, brain tumors, heart disease, blood clots, Lupus, Lyme disease, RSV (oh, wait, he really did have that one), anyway, you get the point. If you have never had feelings like this, and I pray that you have not, and will not, they are terrifying. This was not me! Where had the happy-go-lucky, confident, and cheerful Hey You gone?
After finally confiding in The Husband, he held my hand while I called first my doctor and then the local counseling group. I was put on a mild anti-depressant, and have done about nine months worth of talk therapy. I have added exercise back into my life and am trying to eat with my health (instead of my cravings for chocolate) in mind. I am getting better. I still have days that I have panic attacks for stupid reasons. I still head to Google to check on weird symptoms, but usually catch myself and stop. I still wonder why people are expected to do the hardest job of their life on NO sleep, with their hormones raging, and when they are at their most vulnerable. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. God thought that The Husband and I were the right parents for The Son. And who am I to question with that?
Now I am breast feeding because I want to, and The Son wants to. He will lay next to me as we nurse in bed, and we will hold hands, or he will stroke my cheek as I stroke his. I can feel his breathing change from fast to slow as he relaxes against me. We will look into each other’s eyes, or just sleep. We have perfected the art of the nursey-nap. Nursing is a special time I am not ready to lose, I wasted too many months not enjoying the gift I was given, and I plan to cherish this as long as we both are comfortable.
