From Breast to Bottle.

The first time she latched on was the first time I felt like a mother. The contraction pains didn't do it. The ginormous belly didn't do it. Even holding her for the first time, I still felt like I was living someone else's life. But when they brought her into my hospital room that first time, at three in the morning, with Jason's rumbling snores as our score, it finally hit me. This child is mine. I created her. I'm a mother.

The first time Jason gave her a bottle, I sat across the room and cried. It's just hormones, I rationalized with myself. It's just hormones can be used to rationalize so much those first few weeks.

As it turns out, five weeks later, it wasn't just hormones. Giving up breastfeeding has been the most emotional part of this whole experience so far.

At Adelyn's first doctor's appointment, I was told she'd lost more than ten percent of her birth weight. She wanted me to supplement her with formula. As soon as the doctor walked out of the room and I unhooked my nursing bra to feed Adelyn, I told myself we'd figure it out. We weren't going to give up.

I really didn't know how I would feel about breastfeeding. I knew I wanted to try it; I knew it seemed like the more obvious and natural choice. But I didn't know how connected it would make me feel to my baby, to all women, to myself. And to hear that word come out of a doctor's mouth--"formula"--meant that I was failing.

I know it could easily sound crazy to anyone who hasn't experienced that post-pregnancy hormone surge and dip. But let me tell you. It was gut-wrenching, soul-shattering, heartbreaking feeling like Adelyn was still hungry. Feeling like it was my body--the very thing that housed her all those months--that was keeping her from growing.

So I called in support. Jason's cousin, Micki, a doula and a lactation consulatant and someone I trust, to pull me out of the supplement-trap. I did some research and found out that breastfed babies can sometimes take a little longer to catch up to their birth weights and that (surprise!) doctors all-too-often force mothers on the formula-train.

Micki stayed over for hours, watching Adelyn eat, teaching me better ways to support her little head and my back. When she left I felt a renewed sense of confidence. For the first time since she was born, Adelyn was getting that drunk look on her face after nursing. Finally. I was doing it, and she was satisfied.

While all of this was going on, I was fighting another battle on the side. With my health. I knew from the first day we got home that I was inching toward a Crohn's flare-up. My gastroenterologist had warned me that breastfeeding could trigger one. He told me if I insisted on going that route, that I should only do it for a week. But this is the same man who told me I'd need a C-section because of Crohn's, that I'd most likely deliver Adelyn dangerously early. He was wrong.

So I stuck with it. My nipples cracked. Every single one of my shirts got stained. I never slept for more than two hours. Because that's what you have to do in the beginning when you're breastfeeding. But even though I was exhausted and my breasts ached I got an indefinable thrill being the only one who could feed my child. I felt like a mother.

Three weeks postpartum, I was back to my pre-pregnancy weight. And I wish I could say it was because of the magic of breastfeeding. It might have been partly thanks to that. But I also wasn't eating. Like, at all. I'd eat some toast for breakfast and maybe get down a few forkfuls at dinner. And each bite was forced. I was nauseaus, weak and running to the bathroom when I wasn't sitting on the couch with my Boppy and my daughter, trying to satiate her enough to avoid formula.

I went to my gastroenterologist two weeks ago and told him everything. He thought I might have an infection that's pretty common after pregnancy, especially for people with digestive diseases, because I was given IV antibiotics during labor. So he took some samples to confirm I had it and sent me home with a prescription for Flagyl, which would get rid of the infection. It's also a medicine that has tremendously helped my Crohn's symptoms in the past. Great. An easy solution, I thought.

Then I got home and looked at the prescription bottle and saw the great, big "Don't Breastfeed!" warning. Deep down, I knew it was coming. I knew something wasn't right, despite that nagging voice telling me the natural way would--and should--prevail.

My plan at that point was to stay on the medicine until I kicked the infection and to just pump and dump until it was out of my system, to hopefully keep up my supply. Luckily I'd been pumping like a maniac and had enough stored in the freezer to get Adelyn by for the next few days.

It only took 24 hours on that medicine for me to start feeling a little more like myself. I wasn't breastfeeding, but I was able to spend time actually looking at my daughter, enjoying her. The time usually spent running to the bathroom or lying down fighting desperate exhaustion could be spent with her.

Another 24 hours later, I got a call from my doctor. Turns out, I didn't have that infection after all. It'd really just been Crohn's all along, no quick fix. Still, the Flagyl was helping.

Adelyn will be six weeks old on Monday. She's now exclusively eating formula. My supply dried up quicker than it came--two days of only pumping and I was getting out half an ounce at a time, then a quarter, then droplets. Then nothing. By the time Adelyn had finished the breastmilk in the freezer, I wasn't even leaking anymore. It was gone; I was done and officially on the formula-train.

As disappointed as I was to give it up (especially that first time, watching Jason feed her, realizing it was over), I have to admit. Everything's gotten better since we switched to formula. I feel better. Adelyn's gaining weight. Jason and I get to take shifts at night feeding her, and her grandparents get to watch her for more than an hour at a time.

Giving up breastfeeding was both the hardest part of my postpartum experience so far and the key to finding my rhythm as a parent.

The breast-is-best movement has its good intentions, and I admit, the breast is best. And the idiots on 16 and Pregnant make formula feeding look careless and evil, because those girls don't even try. They just say "ew, gross" and look the other way. And because of mothers like that, the rest of us feel embarrassed when our doctors ask us, "are you still breastfeeding?" Saying "no" feels like admitting we're less-than.

I spent the last week being ashamed not only that I gave up breastfeeding but also that I--and this is scary to even admit out loud--enjoy being a mother more now that I've stopped.

There. I said it. My name is Sarah, and I formula feed my baby. And our lives are better because of it.

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The Breastfeeding Saga Continues

I didn't expect to love breastfeeding as much as I do (there is absolutely nothing more endearing than feeding your child and watching their impossibly small fingers wrap around your hair), nor did I expect it to be so complicated.

The second night in the hospital I had a major wake up call. I knew that newborns had to eat a lot thanks to those newborn tummies, but I assumed "a lot" meant--maybe--two or three meals to my one.

That second night I was so looking forward to sleeping. Finally. Actually, not so much looking forward to it as desperately, deliriously, on-the-verge of breaking down needing it. So I sent Adelyn to the nursery around 9 p.m. Kissed her little pink forehead goodbye. And then the nurse said she'd bring her back in two hours to eat.

I almost cried. I had to rationalize with myself not to argue with this nurse, that surely this every two hour thing was just one of the countless motherhood unknowns.

Two hours and no sleep later, she was back. And, yes, I nearly squealed with delight when I heard the nurse opening the door. I love her more than I knew possible--it's just the lack of sleep I detest.

It's getting better, though. We started supplementing with formula last night. Jason offered her two ounces out of a Dr. Brown's bottle (I'd read that they were the best for breastfed babies) after I'd already fed her for thirty minutes, and she gobbled it up. I'm talking grunting, drooling, eyes-wide gobbled it down. I bawled my eyes out watching (they're not lying when they tell you about postpartum emotion), realizing that she really, truly hadn't been getting enough to eat.

We invested in a good breastpump from the hospital. That's not going so well, though. Again, my naive-self had extraordinarily unrealistic expectations about pumping. I thought, you know, ten minutes of pump-pumping and I'd have a full bottle. A couple of times a day of that and I'd have a freezer-full in a week.

In reality, I spent the first week pumping twice daily for twenty minutes right after I fed her, watching in frustration as the tiny little driblets barely reached a quarter ounce in the bottle.

On Monday I started pumping more (three or four times a day) and getting slightly better results. Then I pumped first thing this morning, since Jason had already fed her with a little bit of formula before I got up, and I got a whole two ounces out of each breast. (Those of you contemplating pregnancy, take heed that these are the kind of things that will thrill you after your baby arrives--feeling like a cow hooked up to a creepy sucking machine.)

I now have a modest stash in the freezer, about five four ounce bottles. Soon, I hope that we can supplement with extra breast milk rather than formula, and then hopefully she'll plump up enough that I can go back to breastfeeding exclusively. I also ordered some fenugreek thanks to some of your wonderful suggestions.

It's all starting to feel like a mind-numbing algebra equation. I'm trying to figure it out, piece by piece.

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Only the beginning.

She's been here, what, a month? A decade? Forever? It's hard to believe it's only been a week and two days. I can't remember a life without her. Already. Without her coos and gas disguised as smiles and demands.

And it's only the beginning. In just a week I feel like I've been confronted with a deluge of parenting battles, but I know better than to think this is the hard part, or even the tiniest, tiniest glimmer of the battles to come.

At her first doctor's appointment Monday she got a clean bill of health. I put her report on the fridge--the first in what I'm sure will be many excuses to brag about my perfect little girl. The doctor wrote "100% healthy!" and circled it three times. I could cry I'm so proud (or so hormonal).

The only problem is that Adelyn has lost more weight than "normal." She was born 7 pounds, 5.2 ounces. We left the hospital at 7 pounds, 0.2 ounces. And a week later she was only 6 pounds, 8 ounces. The doctor wanted me to supplement with formula. I said no. She asked me to come back this afternoon to have her weighed again--if things hadn't improved, it would become more of an issue.

So yesterday, I fed her constantly. Every time she opened her mouth, even showed the smallest hint of hunger, I offered her milk. Usually she took it, but not for long. I called one of Jason's cousins, a lactation consultant, who told me to sit back on the couch with my shirt off and Adelyn dressed down to a diaper, and to lie skin-to-skin all day long. My sister was in town visiting, but I still gave it a try.

Two hours later, I had to pee. I am, after all, human. I handed her off to my sister for just a second. A little while after that, I was hungry. And after dropping too many crumbs on Adelyn's poor little naked back I realized that this 24/7 skin-to-skin thing just wasn't for me.

It's only the beginning of the guilt. She's genuinely not getting enough to eat. And I am trying with all my might to give it to her. I feed her every single time she cries, and if she doesn't, every two hours religiously. I set alarms in the middle of the night. I let her eat until she falls asleep. Even more, I actually love breastfeeding. I wasn't sure if I would. The first time, though, the nurse brought her into my hospital room to practice, I fell in love with her all over again. I don't want to stop breastfeeding.

And still, she's losing weight. She never seems to want to eat for more than 10 minutes.

And on top of all that, I can't eat. I'm not hungry. I went from a ravenously hungry pregnant woman to forcing myself to eat a small meal. I don't know if it's Crohn's or lack of sleep or anxiety, but I honestly am having trouble sustaining myself. I heard about the after-birth contractions, and mine are either still going strong or I'm on the verge of a flare-up. They double me over in pain. I keep asking other mothers--and my doctor--if they remember this pain. They all say yes, but not for this long. Mine are getting worse.

So, tonight, we'll supplement with formula. Even writing that sentence makes me want to cry. She's lying in her swing right now, finally--finally!--asleep.

And I'm sure other mothers can understand when I say that looking at her face and feeling like I'm somehow letting her down is almost too much for a one-week postpartum woman to digest.

Look at her.

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Breastfeeding.

I'm months away from the actual decision and it's somehow already permeated my thoughts. My body usually fails me, and I don't say that to be dramatic. Not that I come down with a new cancer every time I get a check-up, but in the past--and definitely in my psyche--whatever I want to happen with my body inevitably won't, or even if it does, it will find another way to let me down.

That's why I already worry about breastfeeding. What if I can't? What if my baby won't? The judgement! The shame! It's enough to send a 23 year old woman who didn't even know if she ever wanted to be a mom into a panic attack.

I plan on doing my best to stick to the breast, at least for a while, but I've been searching endlessly for a level-headed, well-constructed exploration of the Breast is Best Army. Personally, I think it's probably the better route assuming my body and baby allows it to be, but not because formula is EVIL or will somehow destroy my child's future. My mom breastfed me at least to if not way beyond the recommended age, and I wound up with severe Crohn's Disease at 10 years old. It's not--it can't be--that black and white.

I just stumbled upon this article from The Atlantic, and it was exactly what I'd been searching for. Real argument and research devoid of any "because I said so's."

I hope I can breastfeed. But I'm becoming very, very accustomed to things not going to plan.

--Sorry I haven't written much lately. I'm having a major case of writer's block/coming up with anything worthwhile to say. Hoping finishing The Road, aka the most depressing book I've read in a while, will spark something in me.

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Pregnancy dreams, breastfeeding, and George W. Bush's devil child

I've heard about this whole crazy-pregnancy dreams thing for a while, but last night was the first time I officially experienced it.

I have never had a "normal," simple, obvious dream. Never do they include school, or work, or romances with celebrities, or being nude in public. So for me to have a dream that I classify as "crazy" is saying something. I haven't had such intense, vivid dreams since my first time on Prednisone when I was 13, and I still, ten years later, remember every single color, texture, word, and emotion of those.

Last night (or, day, rather, since I sleep during the daylight and work overnight), included a string of these bizarre dreams. One, in particular, stands out.

My fiance and I buy a one-room cabin in the woods. It's bare, at best, with a moth-ball-ridden plaid couch and a leaky sink and drafty windows. We also buy a gun, to accompany us in our new real estate adventure, and put it next to the couch, which we decide will be our bed.

After one night of sleeping there, I know we've made a mistake (I think I originally thought it would be a good place for the baby--quiet, unadulterated by pop culture and a good place to breed a thinker). I'd spent the night sleeping on the inside of the couch, with Jason gripping the gun on my other side (he was terrified of the woods. Again, why our dream-selves moved there, who really knows).

The next day, a man and a woman come to visit us. They say they used to live in this house.

They know that I'm pregnant, and the woman tells us she just gave birth. For a few hours, we're friends. We sit on the plaid couch and she tells me all about labor, the ins and outs of the end of pregnancy, the glory of seeing your child for the first time.

Then they leave, and promise to return the next day.

When they return, something has changed. They aren't the friendly, woods-dwelling hippies they were the day before. They're moody, fidgety, and now they wear huge plaid shirts (the day before, the woman had been wearing a flowing, white dress, the man, flip flops and shorts).

The woman starts in on a story about how her child was conceived. Turns out, it doesn't belong to her male companion.

It belongs, she confesses, to George W. Bush.

And it isn't Dubya's love child. The former president raped her.

She's not especially upset telling me this, but her eyes well up for the next part.

She has given birth, she says, to a devil baby. She never outright says that Bush would then be the devil, but his spawn, well, it's nothing but evil.

Then she slowly, and reluctantly, eyes down and ashamed, unbuttons her plaid shirt.

Her breasts have been mutilated beyond recognition. Her nipples are gone, in their place are only huge, bleeding scabs.

I'm not scared by the sight, only fascinated. I had questions about breastfeeding, and this answers quite a few (namely that I no way in hell want to do it).

I ask her how this happened, and she says there's only one way to show me the havoc little George Jr. wrecks when he's feeding.

I then see another scene altogether, one I assume she's allowing me to view from her own thoughts.

And this telepathic vision is a scene from Jurassic Park. It's the one where the group sees the Velocorapter cages for the first time, and they get to witness a feeding.

A cow, strapped up in a harness, is slowly lowered into the cage. All I see is the intact, mooing cow disappear from sight. For just a few moments the tops of the caged trees rustle and shake, and then the harness is raised.

It's in shreds. And the cow is gone.

And then I woke up, and decided not to breastfeed.

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