A time to be proud

Just this week I witnessed two separate friends of mine making judgmental statements about parenting.  Both times the intentions were good, and I actually agreed with the line of action taken by the judgmental party in both cases, but I hate parent shaming (abuse and neglect aside, of course).  I don't want being a parent to be another societal avenue for judging others and thus feeling superior, but it is. The best I can do is not participate in such actions.

That said, I have a story to tell, one that I am proud to share.  And my story has no bearing on your story, or that of your sister, wife, or friend.  This is what I chose to do, and I may have chosen differently in different circumstances.

About 4.5 days ago I completed the process of weening Elijah.  He is 17 months old, and exclusively nursed from the time he was born.

Abigail took this photo when Elijah was 3 months old

This fact alone is noteworthy only to me, as he is probably my last baby, and his outgrowing that sweet bonding time is bittersweet.  I will miss his cuddly arm underneath mine, and the way he expressed his contented love with a sweet, gummy smile.  I will miss knowing that I can provide for him in every way; so long as I am there he is safe.  This may still be true, but not in the same way.  Having a nursing child is the most important thing I will ever do for an individual; I was his everything.  Of course, that comes at a price.  The sun and the moon don't take time off for…..anything, really.

But the real story that I want to share is about how much harder it was the second time around.  I remember the exact day my troubles began: September 21, 2013.  Elijah was 5 months old and went on a nursing strike.  We were at the beach on a family trip and he would not eat, not at the beach, in the little tent that I brought, in the car, the bathrooms, or the changing areas.  This was not normal.  He didn't eat for nearly the whole day, and I was freaking out.

I thought that his lack of interest that day was due to overstimulation, or the fact that we were away all day, but it wasn't.  That day was followed by months of hard work and frustration.  I learned so much about my body in that time, and with a lot of help from my little sister, who experienced similar problems, we made it through.

First, Elijah would not nurse if there was anything better to do.  I was home at nursing time, in his room, which was dimly lit, with wave sounds, in the rocking chair.  Abigail always wanted to be with me, but if Elijah heard her say a single word than the nursing session was over.  It took me awhile to figure out that if I set up a little coloring station for her on the floor in his room, she would color quietly while I nursed him.

Second, I learned to start out nursing him on his less favored side.  If I achieved let down of milk on his less favored side, then switching to the other side, which presumably had easier flow, was mostly guaranteed.  My best chance of encouraging him to suckle long enough to ensure let down was to start out nursing him while standing and swaying, and maybe singing a little song.  Then once the milk was flowing I could sit (sometimes).

Third, on particularly hard days, the best time to nurse him was right before sleep, as he was more relaxed and less likely to be distracted.  If he refused milk at his first feeding of the day, I would not continue trying every 15 minutes, as I did when Abigail was young, but would wait until just before nap time or bed time to increase the likelihood of a quality feeding.

Of course all of these nursing problems led directly to milk supply problems, despite the fact that I would nurse on demand if able.  I ate every kind of food listed in the lactation guides, stayed hydrated, didn't exercise anywhere near a feeding, and tried to slow down a little in life (though I failed pretty miserably at this last one).  I ended up taking a nursing supplements four times a day.

Lastly, I had to monitor my cycle.  Seven to ten days before my period, my milk would plummet, only to recover about 13 days later.  This led to a constant battle for milk: two weeks easy, two weeks hard.  Mornings were my best production time, so I pumped after his first feeding every day, and saved the ounce or two that he failed to drink.  I also pumped right before bed, since he would nurse at 6 pm and I was always up until 10 or 11 pm.  Instead of letting that milk sit, I expressed it and saved it, both increasing my supply and allowing me a cushion for the times when I was not producing.  I used the saved milk to feed him by bottle before bed on low-milk days, and boy was that precious stuff.  He would drink 4-6 ounces from a bottle before bed when I didn't have any milk (which was determined by his demeanor upon nursing--if he was fussy and seemed unsatisfied, then I would get a bottle), and I would lay him down wondering if he was still hungry, feeling stressed, not knowing if I was doing the right thing.

Of course I consulted his pediatrician.  Elijah never, ever lost weight.  He was healthy and growing along the projected curve, so she saw no reason for me to introduce formula, if I was willing to continue nursing at what was a high cost to me personally.  Additionally, his nursing strike occurred a few weeks before we introduced solids, so he was able to begin the process of getting additional nutrition, though nursing was still to be his primary source of nourishment.

Time passed and things got easier.  I switched from taking the supplement four times a day to morning and night.  As he reduced his nursing slowly from 6 times a day to 4 the burden lessened.  I'm sure the improvement in my stress level helped my milk recover.  I told myself that I would fight through a year, and then I would stop taking the supplements and just see what happened.  At 14 months he was nursing four times (upon waking, before two naps, and at bedtime).  He transitioned to one nap, so I was down to three feedings, then I eliminated them one by one, intending to cut one out every two weeks, but winding up with about three week gaps.  And now my big boy doesn't nurse.  My breasts are engorged and painful, still.  I guess that milk production that I willed into my very cells is not giving up without a fight either.

Home grown

The thing about this experience that is distressing to me is that I did not get any useful advice from the medical field.  No one would listen to me.  They just wanted to spout off the list of things I should eat, or that I should nurse more frequently (good luck with that, since he won't nurse AT ALL).  I was doing all of those things, and it was not working.  Thank goodness for my sister, Debi, who was my lifeline.  I was lucky to have someone to share my struggle with who understood each issue exactly, having experienced them herself.  Not all women have that luxury.  She gave me hope and encouragement.  I was able to do what I wanted to do, for my son, and I'm grateful.