Hellobee

Adapted from a post originally written in November 2012, when Little C was 5.5 months old.

The decision had been a long time in the making.  Tears had been shed, sleep had been lost, but deep down, I knew it was time.

Breastfeeding was something I knew I wanted to do before I was even pregnant.  I looked forward to bonding with Little C as he nursed, being not only his caregiver but his provider of the best possible nourishment a baby could get. I imagined serene images of a snuggly baby boy nuzzled up at my breast, both of us calm as we settled down for him to peacefully nurse at my breast.

We got off to a bumpy start. Little C struggled at mastering the latch, and by the time he got the hang of it, he was three weeks old, and I had bloody, scabbed nipples and a broken spirit from a lack of sleep and an intense, painful bout of mastitis. Simultaneously, I caught a vicious stomach bug, and I spent the next week barely able to stomach any food, chained to the commode with a nursing baby at my breast.  Struggling to stay fed and hydrated, I insisted on forging ahead in breastfeeding, and within less than a month, I had lost nearly all of my pregnancy pounds.

After those rough early weeks, Little C mastered the latch, my nipples began healing (thanks to Newman’s Nipple Cream – the magical salve that restored my faith in nursing), and we fell into a good rhythm. I was ensuring that Little C’s needs were being met, feeding him every few hours, and forging my way into motherhood. I was so concerned about tending to Little C that in all honesty, I was not doing the best job taking care of myself.

I have always been a light eater, often eating lots of small meals and snacks throughout the day.  Once Little C was born, I found myself skipping meals, because I would be too busy, or I would forget, or we’d be out for a walk and C would fall asleep, and I wouldn’t want to wake him to go in for lunch. Staying hydrated has never been my strong suit, and somehow my mind never connected with the need to drink as I nursed Little C. I knew rationally that I should be eating and drinking more if I wanted to continue to feed myself and him, but my appetite wasn’t there (especially after my stomach bug) and no matter how much I tried, I couldn’t seem to stay on top of my own needs while tending to C, our puppy, our household and everyday life.

As the scale dipped lower and lower, flying past my pre-pregnancy weight, and then even past my high school graduation weight, I noticed my supply starting to dip.  Little C was eating more and more regularly, and by the end of the day, he was so fussy that he wouldn’t even latch at my breast. I started pumping so we could give him a bottle at bedtime, and soon, I had to pump twice (and sometimes three times) to get enough for that one bottle. In my mind, supplementing with formula was out of the question. And still, his nursing needs during the day were seeming to increase, rather than him becoming more efficient and nursing less frequently, as the books said he would.

My lack of sleep (from staying up later in the night to pump for the next night’s bottle, plus an early a.m. nursing session) combined with the stress and guilt didn’t help my supply. Then at four months, Little C hit a growth spurt, a sleep regression and got two teeth, all in the span of a couple weeks. On top of all of that, I had several painful plugged ducts and caught a massive cold which basically put the nail in the coffin when regarding my supply. No amount of Mother’s Milk Tea, oatmeal, lactation cookies, increased food and hydration, extra pumping or anything else I tried seemed to help.

Finally one morning when Little C was about five months old, after nursing as we usually did, I played with him for a bit, and as he had been for a week or so, he became crabby and was showing hunger signs very soon after nursing.

We had a sample tub of Similac in the house from an event I had attended, and despite my single-minded determination to nurse exclusively, I had kept it in the back of our pantry, in case of an emergency.  Ironically, there was no emergency – just the emergence of a crabby baby who shouldn’t be hungry yet, and nothing else I tried seemed to make him happy.

I offered the bottle of formula, and he took four ounces immediately. He guzzled them. No taste confusion, no bottle troubles, no problems. If anything, after that bottle, he seemed happier to me than he had in weeks, and the addition of formula into his world was no big deal to him.

It was a huge deal to me.

I fed him, and I cried, partially because I felt guilty not to have tried this sooner and partially because I knew that I did not reach my original goal of breastfeeding without supplementing with formula for at least six months. I cried because everything I had read touted the benefits of breast milk and decried formula as second-rate food (which is grossly exaggerated, I know, but the blogosphere is rife with formula hatred). I cried because I felt like a failure, even though I knew deep down it wasn’t true.

I knew that formula would be just fine for Little C, because both of his parents were raised exclusively on formula, and we both turned out to be happy, healthy, successful adults. And I knew that the five months of exclusive breastfeeding he had would hopefully do wonders in combating future allergies and had already helped immensely in protecting him from colds and illness.

I recognized that my angst was overly exaggerated (and likely driven primarily by hormones), and what mattered most was making sure that the baby was fed, but still, the sadness lingered. I knew it was the beginning of the end – and boy was I right.  As soon as I started supplementing, my body recognized quickly that demand was lower, and my supply continued to wither until we weaned completely within about a month.  I also knew that there would likely be some positives peppered in with all of the negative emotions I was facing about weaning – being able to wear dresses again, not worrying about pumping and my freezer stash, eating spicy food again. More than anything though, I knew all of these positives meant nothing at the time compared to the smile on Little C’s face when he had a full tummy from that silly bottle of formula I’d put off giving for so long.

Did you have to wean before you hoped or planned?  How did you handle the transition?