Raise the white flag. It’s over. After three and a half months, the breastfeeding battle has ended, and I have lost.
Honestly, I didn’t think I would last this long. From the start, I wasn’t in love with it. It was hard, and I was tired, and I constantly worried that she wasn’t getting enough or she was getting too much or I wasn’t eating well enough. The OCD in me fought breastfeeding every step of the way, dying to be in control of how often and how much… or at least to know. Then there was the overactive letdown and the food allergies… the choking and the swollen breasts and the foremilk/hindmilk issue. And the pumping. Oh, how I hate(d) pumping. But I knew that it was best for baby, so I kept at it, determined to make breastfeeding work. And, as time went on, it became the least stressful part about being a new mommy. It was a quiet moment with just me and Emery. It was knowing that no matter where we were or what we were doing, I could provide for her most basic need. It was exactly what she needed, and that was more than enough. Suddenly, it had been three months, and I could see myself breastfeeding for the whole first year. I just knew it would work out.
But then, just as suddenly, things changed. Life happened, and the anxiety that I fight with regularly began creeping its way back into my head. Stress got the best of me… and my boobs. My milk wasn’t letting down. No matter how relaxed I pretended tried to be, it just wouldn’t come out. Emery started fussing at nearly every feeding. She cried her baby goat cry, and my heart was broken, but I had no idea how to fix it. I couldn’t pump more than two or three ounces at a time, so supplementing with breastmilk wasn’t going to work. We had no choice. We bought the formula, methodically mixed the first bottle and held it to her little mouth. She sucked it down. Big ole tears were rolling down my cheeks. For the first time in a week, she seemed truly satisfied. And while that was a weight off a stressed mommy’s shoulders, that meant that for the first time in her entire little life, I wasn’t able to give her what she needed.
But I wasn’t throwing in the towel just yet. I was even more motivated to fight the anxiety demons. I pumped religiously at work and at home, and we supplemented with formula when we needed to. I made a commitment to relax and just go with the flow. And I did. But it still wasn’t enough. The breast was no longer a peaceful place for either me or Emery. She preferred the bottle because it was easy, and I because it calmed my fears of her not getting enough. So I pumped at work, pumped at home while she ate and cherished each and every sleepy, early morning nursing session. I knew our days of breastfeeding were numbered. I was spending every spare moment with my breast pump, not my baby. I was still having trouble with my milk letting down, especially at work. Emery was waking up an hour after she ate in the mornings, hungry again. Brian was understanding, but obviously exhausted after being home with baby all day and then having to feed her while I pumped. Then, when she went to bed, I pumped again and passed out from exhaustion, giving us no time to spend together as a couple.
So this past week, I made the toughest decision I have had to make so far as a momma. I packed up the pump, and we had our last early morning hurrah. Emery Jane is officially a formula baby. I am tearing up just thinking about it. Part of me still feels as if I let her down, but most of me knows that this is what is best for all of us. So, I will put on my big girl face and move on, happy that I can enjoy every spare moment with her and hubby instead of being strapped to a pump. Happy that she is getting what she needs and that my sanity is restored. Happy that she got three and a half months of breast milk to get her started and that I got three and a half months of bonding with her in a way that no one else ever has or will. Bigger and better things… like rolling over and teething… await!
