My earliest memory of my mother (and perhaps of my life in general) is watching television in the reflection of my mom's glasses as she nursed me. The glasses were pink, plastic-rimmed, enormous things. The kind of glasses you would only find in the late eighties. We were in her bed (where I slept for many years). The ten o'clock news was droning in the background (my mom was never much on bedtimes). I remember seeing her eyes behind the tiny reflection of the television. I was two, maybe two and a half years old.
I recognize the varying reactions people might have to a woman like my mother breastfeeding her children once they are no longer considered babies. Some people have adverse reactions to breastfeeding even newborn babies. However, I know that for me breastfeeding Owen has been an important way to connect with my own mother. Part of my desire to get pregnant was to experience motherhood with my mom still available to me. Nursing my babies is part of being a mother for me. I consider myself lucky to have learned to parent from my own mom. However, despite my personal connection to breastfeeding, the process of getting even nine weeks into life as a nursing mother has been exceptionally difficult.
I didn't wear a shirt in June. Come to think of it, most of the time I didn't even have on a bra. June was the month of learning to breastfeed, which I realize now is almost as hard as learning a foreign language.
Owen was born on a Monday afternoon. I got to try to nurse him for the first time within an hour or so after he was delivered. I knew the importance of breastfeeding as soon as possible after a baby is born. I knew the importance of skin-to-skin contact. I knew to avoid a nipple shield. I knew latching on could be complicated. I knew a lot about breastfeeding before I was holding my newborn son in my arms with a nurse instructing me on how to situate my nipple. I knew a lot of stuff, yet I suddenly felt like I knew nothing.
Breastfeeding was the main goal I had when I found out I was pregnant. I've always believed in the power of breast milk. My mom is the only person on the planet who sold breastfeeding as natural and easy. She always assured me there would be very few problems for me if I wanted to nurse. At the same time, somehow I only personally knew one woman who had exclusively breastfed her child for longer than a few weeks. Before I had Owen, breastfeeding seemed like a mysterious club to which only a few women manage to gain entry. It seemed everyone I knew managed to not make enough milk. People acted like breastfeeding was nearly impossible, and I was worried I would find the same to be true.
In the hospital, I followed the nurse's orders to a tee. I (tried to) nurse Owen every two to three hours, generally closer to two. He wouldn't nurse real successfully. I sort of just felt like I was fumbling with him. I tried different positions. Cody tried to help. Nurses tried to help. A lactation consultant at the hospital would analyze what I was doing. By the time we left the hospital two days after Owen arrived, I was already sporting sore nipples and a real fear that I was soon to face the same predicament of all of my mother friends.
Once we arrived home, my topless June began. I took off my shirt and got to work. I was bound and determined to figure out how to nurse my child. Cody was an invaluable partner in this process. We were diligent about feeding every two hours. We wrote down what time and how long Owen would feed every single time. I read every bit of information I could find on the internet. I self-diagnosed any issue I was experiencing. At times Owen would cry and cry and cry when I tried to get him to eat. He acted like the last thing he wanted was to nurse. I knew early on that there was an issue with his latch, although I was clueless as to a solution.
The longer I breastfed, the more sore my nipples became. The lactation consultant told me numerous times while in the hospital that nursing should not hurt, but instead be uncomfortable at most. Nursing for me felt like needles being stuck in my nipples with each suck. It was unbearable at times and so frustrating. I thought I had reached my breaking point on numerous occasions. I sought help from successful breast feeders (ironically my own mother is the most impressive breastfeeding mother I know, and also the only woman who has no breasts that I know...there's a weird dynamic for ya). I sought help from the internet. I found myself applying nipple cream (Mother's Love proved most helpful for me) and soaking my cracked nipples in salt water after every feeding. I used ice packs and heat. I spent my time topless to try to help heal my poor nipples. I only put on a shirt when people came over-testimony for why visitors should give new parents a few weeks to get their bearings before visiting.
The good news was that Owen gained weight successfully despite my troubles. We kept on researching solutions to the problems that arose. I forced myself to hang in until the two week mark, the point at which many people said breastfeeding got easier. Sure enough, at two weeks things did start to improve. My nipples finally started to heal some. Owen and I found a bit of a groove as a breastfeeding team. I started to have moments of calm as I fed my baby; something I always hoped I could experience.
Breastfeeding today is a much easier task. My nipples are rarely ever sore anymore. Owen is a much more efficient eater allowing me to avoid hour long nursing sessions like early on. The majority of the time breastfeeding is exactly what I hoped it would be; a way to nourish my baby and connect with him in a way reserved only for his mother. I am so glad that I weathered the breastfeeding storm. While I know I still have stuff to learn (like how to feel somewhat comfortable with breastfeeding in public), I also know that I have done what is best for Owen and me and that is what is most important for every mother and child.
Breastfeeding is a trip. For something so natural, it certainly is anything but easy. I am appreciative that all of the factors that go into breastfeeding successfully eventually fell into place for us.
When I nurse Owen, I sometimes think of my own mother and all the hours she spent nursing her babies. I sometimes think of the reflection of the TV in her glasses. I wonder who I will be when Owen is nearly thirty years old and making his own life. I try to imagine my life when I am my mom's age and my babies are adults.
I always come back to what both my mom and I will always have-the experience of motherhood from the other side of the glasses. I realize now that most nights my mom probably wasn't watching the news. She was soaking in another night of nursing her baby-the eyelashes, the hot, sugary breath, the little fingers, the sighs of clam. We both get it now and will always remember mothering our babies, and I am grateful for that.
