Breastfeeding is regarded by almost all as the best bonding experience between a mum and her baby. I’ve also heard dozens of mums talk of an overwhelming sense of pride that they’re able to solely sustain their babies. It all sounds very romantic and most mums will give it a good bash when they first meet their babies - myself included.
What’s more, every week the press will unveil some new benefit attributed to breastfeeding (sometimes spurious and ridiculous, but more often than not promoting the health and well-being of your baby in a way that can’t be ignored) - there was even some talk a few months back about the Government offering financial incentives to breastfeeding mums.
So if it’s that great, why am I this close to giving up?
Firstly there’s the way it makes me feel. I can’t seem to shake the thought that the act itself is primitive and animalistic. I feel like I’ve regressed to a dog or a cow swollen with milk. Adding to the effect, my breasts are large (currently 36H) meaning I’m favouring the rugby ball method with Heidi slung under my armpit on a cloud of pillows. This stops me smothering her with my breast but isn’t discreet and pretty like the pictures in the press. There’s nothing enjoyable about it either. I can’t gently stroke her head whilst she has her fill or she’d cop an elbow in the face! What’s more, it is isn’t really possible in the middle of Costa Coffee!
Add to this that fact I’m sporting a c-section wound that threatens to bust open at any moment, a baby that is yet to work out how to feed efficiently (one feed can take up to two hours), and a milk supply that has somewhat depleted given we had to introduce a few bottles of formula whilst waiting for my milk to come through, and hopefully I’m building a picture of just how much of a struggle this has been so far.
Then there’s the impact on my toddler. As I watch Dexter struggle to come to terms with Heidi joining the family, every cry takes on a heartbreaking quality. He’ll call for Mama and paw at my legs and arms begging me to get on the floor with him and help him with a board puzzle. But no, I’m stuck in the most unnatural position you can think of with Heidi. I also go a little like a zombie when I breastfeed - I find it exhausting so often nod off. A few days ago I awoke to find Dex sitting on the floor of the downstairs loo reading a book in floods of tears. It broke me and I cried the entire day.
The discomfort is made even worse by the fact that my uterus continues to contract when she’s latched on. This is a horrible sensation and brings back flashbacks of the trauma my body went through before I was wheeled through to theatre. Then there’s the obligatory sore nipples. Every latch is excruciatingly painful. I feel stupid even writing this when my nipples are barely cracked but when you’re wobbling over whether to pack it all in or not you look for any excuse to quit - this is just another fat tick in the cons list.
Is it also selfish of me to worry about what state my boobs will be in when this is all over?
All this has led to me seriously questioning whether it’s worth it. I know this might sound melodramatic, unnatural and even shocking to some, but I’m almost resenting Heidi’s insatiability and the sheer amount of time it takes to feed her. I feel so desperately sorry for Dexter and feel like a bad mum to both children. I hate the way it makes me feel about her, and I hate the way that Dexter is left for such long periods of time to entertain himself. Worst of all, I hate myself for even allowing these thoughts to creep on in.
I know I’ll be disappointed with myself if I admit defeat so easily. If Heidi gets more efficient and I make a real effort to wean her off these bottles, this could really work for us when I’m fully healed - it’s certainly easier than faffing around with bottles in the kitchen at 3am! But this doesn’t change the fact that I’ll never be able to recreate our feeding position in public, or be apart from Heidi for any length of time - I can’t ever see myself being able to express with my lowly supply. The only alternative is a complicated combination routine that I simply don’t trust myself to stick to.
I need some advice guys, I really do. Is there a connection between breastfeeding and baby blues? Perhaps this is the problem. I know that Craig is worried now and is keen for me to stop. He’s the one that sees me in tears daily, or irritable with Heidi. He thinks I’m putting too much pressure on myself and he has a point. I suffered quite badly with PND with Dex and do worry that some of the old signs are there again. Surely it’s not natural for me to dread feeding my baby?
