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standard August 14, 2007 Leave a response

“By now she should be back to her birth weight.” The doctor intoned at Little L’s two week check-up this afternoon. “She’s not bulking up fast enough for my taste. It might be a good idea to top her off with a little formula after each feeding.”
My heart sank to the bottom of my stomach and stayed there for the rest of the day. I still don’t know how long I want to tough out the nursing hassles, but if and when I quit I want it to be on my own terms; I hope it won’t be because I’m failing.

Later at home I nursed Little L for an hour and then handed her to her father so he could feed her some formula. I watched sadly from across the room as she guzzled the formula; convinced that I had been starving my child. As M burped her I wondered once again why I let the whole nursing deal make me so crazy. I still don’t buy into the whole “formula = poison” propaganda, nursing is driving me up the wall, and I really want my baby to get a little more plump. So why am I tempted to curl up into a little ball and sob about the fact that I’m not making milk fast enough to satisfy my little munchkin?

The answer came to me in the car as we were driving to pick up C. For nine months I carried these children in my womb. For that entire time it was just me and them. Everything I ate or did impacted them one way or another. The instant they were born it was no longer just up to me to care for them and keep them alive. The only thing that sets me apart from the rest of their caregivers is my ability to nurse them.

When C and I failed miserably at nursing I sucked it up and pumped my milk for ten months. I still felt like I was doing something for her that no one else could do. It helped me assuage my fear that she wouldn’t know I was her mommy. She was going to spend so much time at daycare I was worried she would get confused. Or maybe I was worried that I was taking the easy road out and I wanted to prove to myself that I was worthy of the mommy title.

This time around I know better. I know that Little L will know I’m her mommy. I know that I deserve that title for way more than just making milk, yet I’m still torturing myself. I’m not ready to give up that tenuous link, that one thing that ties her to me like no one else. So for at least a few months I will keep nursing her as much as possible, even if I have to go to the trouble of giving her a bottle every time, because this is something she can’t share with anyone else, and I’m just not ready to share her 100%.

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