Starting Solids.

This is the second time we've tried to feed Adelyn rice cereal with a spoon. But it's the first time she actually swallowed.

She's inching closer and closer to being five months old, so I figure it's about time she learned that food can come out of something other than a bottle. (I know all the logistics of feeding solids. We've done our research.)

Once she quits forcing all of the food out of her mouth immediately, then we'll move on. To carrots. Peas, pears, apples. Pop Rocks and Coca Cola.

I still have rice cereal on the back of my leg. And I noticed it when I started writing this and have not wiped it off. I'm not sure how it got there.

But who cares? We made a little progress. That's all that really matters.

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The Weekend.

So we survived the weekend, with our two-bedroom apartment filled with four adults, two infants and three dogs. And, you know, we did more than survive it. We had a great time. I was able to let go of the neat-freak, obsessive compulsive-cleaning demon that had taken over my body for the past three months and actually enjoy myself, mounds of clutter aside.

The couple that stayed with us was great. Jason met this guy months ago through a shared love of guitar gear and they've been talking on the phone every night since. Seriously. I felt like I'd been replaced for a while. I'd be like, "Jason, are you coming to bed?" And he'd be like, "In a little while. I'm gonna call Ryan first." And then he'd come to bed an hour or two later.

People might think we're crazy for inviting a couple we barely knew into our home. And maybe we were, a little bit. But it turned out that these people--both covered neck down in tattoos, natch--were among the nicest, most grounded, best parents I've met in years. Their daughter Riley had me laughing nonstop and made me even more excited about Adelyn's future.

The thing about that eleven-month-old that I didn't realize is that she doesn't stop. The weekend also kind of served as a baby-proofing seminar, because I've thought about that topic as much as I have about shaving my legs since Addy arrived which is, like, none.

If we were sitting at home in the living room, Riley was crawling to our entertainment center to pull out DVDs, one by one. If we were in the kitchen, she was crawling to the dog food bowls, eager to try one of the tasty morsels out. If we were at a restaurant, she was grabbing at the hot plates and drinks. If I was holding her, she was grabbing for my face--more specifically, my teeth, which she loved to inspect in detail. It requires constant, vigilant supervision. And Adelyn does, too, but her immobility means I can hold her while I brush my teeth, vacuum, or answer e-mails. Not so much when she's twenty-something pounds, wiggling out of my arms. But with that added responsibility comes a baby who giggles constantly, who gives her parents kisses and actual hugs, who strings together nonsensical sentences like "What're you doing? Hi! Yeah! Babble babble babble. Yeah!" every minute of the day. I can't wait.

And Adelyn. Oh, Adelyn. As her great aunt said yesterday at a family gathering for Jason's birthday, "At least we know her lungs are working. And her vocal chords will be fully developed." After what was probably the best day we've had in months--we took both the kids to lunch and to the zoo, and Adelyn didn't make a peep, did nothing but smile, all day long--she erupted into the most unconsolable fit yet at Jason's parents' house. Every time we have a family gathering she spends the entire time screaming. I spend most of the evening in a back room, trying to calm her down. Different family members take turns coming and trying to help. And eventually, defeated, we go home.

The word "colic" keeps popping up in my head. And I'm trying to beat it back down with a wooden stick. Because, I'll be honest, I sort of think colic is bullshit. I think it's sort of a way for doctors and parents stressed out of their minds to diagnose something nearly undiagnosable. We can't ask babies what's wrong, and if we can't figure it out ourselves, then we just throw "colic" at them and wait for the magical day when it stops.

I don't think Adelyn has these crying fits for no reason. I thought it was reflux, but that medicine is no longer having an effect.

Last night I decided we needed to try a new formula--we've been on Similac Advanced, pre-mixed, then switched to the powder, then back to the pre-mixed, then to Similiac Sensitive pre-mixed, then to the powder, then back to the pre-mixed, then back to the Advanced when her constipation got pretty bad, then back to the Sensitive RS when she kept throwing up all the time. Last night it hit me that I am an idiot and have only tried one brand of formula. I spent a few hours doing research and called my doctor this morning and we've decided to give Gerber Good Start a try. Supposedly it's easier to digest, and for babies with temperamental tummies (ie., Adelyn), it can work wonders.

I'll keep you all posted on how it goes. She gobbled up her first bottle of it this morning like a champ and has now been sleeping long enough for me to wash my face, eat breakfast and start the laundry, so I'm feeling a little hopeful about its effect.

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Medicine.

This morning it finally hit me that something is genuinely hurting Addy. I took her to the doctor yesterday and she got a clean bill of health--maybe a touch of reflux, the doc said, but she wanted to wait and see.

This morning Addy spit up most of her breakfast and cried in pain the whole time.

Time for medicine. We're on the way to try on my wedding dress and then we'll pick up the prescription.

I'm so hesitant to give her medicine, I guess because she's a 12-pound infant and also, to me, once the prescriptions start they never stop. I'm scared this is going to set us on a roller coaster of maybe-it's-this and maybe-we-should-give-her-that.

But this morning I could tell, definitively for the first time, that her fussiness was because she was hurting.

Here goes.

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Maternal Alarm.

This morning my eyes shot open at six a.m. on the dot. I couldn't believe how amazing it was that Adelyn was still asleep--it had been more than six hours since she went to sleep. Immediately I started making lists of all the things I could do before she woke up--eat breakfast! shower! blowdry my hair!--and before my feet hit the floor the first "waaaaahs" were coming through on the monitor.

This internal alarm clock thing is pretty convenient, actually. It would definitely put Kramer's to shame. It often keeps me from being woken up right in the middle of a deep, delirium-inducing sleep (often, not always). A lactation consultant told me a while back that this was a breastfeeding thing, this instinctual alarm. And that was one of the thoughts that kept nagging me when I knew I was going to have to give it up, one of many nagging thoughts that you're not doing the right thing for your baby if you switch to formula.

But look! I formula feed, my milk supply has long dried up, and my body still hasn't lost it. My body still knows its the body of a mother's, despite how much I wish my tummy bulge would forget.

Speaking of formula--after another round of squirming at the bottle and hardly eating last night, Jason ran to the drugstore around 10 p.m. to get Similac Sensitive, pre-mixed, instead of what we'd been using, Similac Advanced in the powder form. A last ditch effort before going to the doctor.

She screamed the entire twenty minutes he was gone--that horrible, horrible scream when she's been fed, burped, changed, entertained, and rocked, and you know there is absolutely nothing else you can really do. He got back and we hurriedly got the bottle ready. The second we put it to her lips she latched on and didn't let go, didn't even stop to squirm once, for an entire five ounces. Then she slept from 11:30 to six this morning.

My biological alarm clock might still be working even though I gave up breastfeeding, but dear God this formula stuff is a hassle.

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The Eating Dance.

Apparently spending an entire day refusing to eat makes for one happy baby.

Yesterday Adelyn decided that she didn't feel like drinking milk anymore (I'd get tired of it, too). I tried to feed her every 30 minutes and sometimes she'd take down an ounce, sometimes she'd look at me in disgust, and every now and then she'd flash that huge, toothless grin that makes a day long, 30-minute interval feeding schedule worth it.

I called the doctor yesterday and was told that as long as she's producing enough wet diapers I didn't need to be immediately alarmed. At three a.m., though, she started screaming while eating, and my new-mom instinctual panic went into overdrive.

This morning she's doing a little better; she ate an entire four ounce bottle this morning IN ONE SITTING.

(So much unused formula went down the drain yesterday; so many bottles were washed and so many spit-up covered clothes laundered I realized for the umpteenth time that I wish I could still breastfeed.)

A visit to the doctor might still be in order today.

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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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