When Breasts Aren't Best.

I’m not one to talk about my boobs. Really, there is nothing particularly special about them, nothing worthy of discussion. It’s almost fitting then that the first time I’m discussing them in public is because they are failures. That’s right, though I’m a B cup; I have F- boobs when it comes to providing milk for my precious babies.

I’ve thought and thought about writing this post, but every time I’ve begun to write, I’ve fallen into a pile of tears and decided that depression is not the best place to be when I write a public blog. But today I’m not depressed. No, I’m angry. And we all know…anger is the best place to come from when writing a blog!

I’m angry because I’ve met five women, this week alone, that have gone through the same struggle as me—and all of us are *just* feeling ok enough to talk about it. We are all middle class, educated women who embraced the mantra “Breast is Best” and came into motherhood with every intention of feeding our babies the way nature intended. We knew that breastfeeding would give our babies higher IQs, better immunity, more bonding time, less allergies…and on and on and on.

What we didn’t know is that our bodies would fail us. And today I’m angry because nobody told us that could happen—and even angrier that nobody is figuring out WHY this is happening. I often think of my struggle to breastfeed as similar to my friends who have struggled with infertility. Breastfeeding, like conceiving a child, is such a miniscule part of what makes you a parent—yet as a woman, if your body doesn’t let you accomplish these things naturally, it’s hard not to feel like a failure.

When I gave birth to the Tatiman, it never occurred to me that I would do anything other than breastfeed him. Until I nearly starved him to death. I read the books, I listed to his pediatrician, and I worked with two lactation consultants. I drank water, I ate oatmeal, I took herbs, I downed tinctures, and I ordered medications not approved by the FDA. I fed him 12 times a day for an hour each time, then pumped for 30 minutes after each feeding, and then fed him whatever I managed to pump. That’s 20 hours a day, minimum, that I sat in tears, facing my perceived failure, while I still managed to starve my beautiful baby boy. Nobody worked harder than I did to do what I believed my body should do naturally. When I finally accepted that my body was not producing enough milk, I knew I had to supplement with formula. I can vividly remember the smell when I opened that first can of formula, and feeling a stabbing pain in my heart when I realized I would not even taste that powdery mix, yet I had to feed it to my innocent newborn son. I wanted to run away to a lala land where my boobs worked, but unfortunately, no lala land existed, so I added formula to the mix. Now my baby was thriving, but I was still spending 20 hours a day doing everything I could to make milk…and failing, repeatedly. I cannot explain to you the anguish I felt (and still feel, remembering that time) every.single.time somebody asked me if I was breastfeeding. I wanted to SCREAM that I was TRYING, but the feelings of failure and fear of judgment usually had me dodging the question. I can’t even begin to tell you how marginalized I’ve felt by well-meaning women who suggested I drink more water or take a ‘nursing vacation.’ My struggles with breastfeeding factored heavily into our decision not to have any more children (yeah, we see how that went!). Eventually, I made surface-level peace with the situation and went on to nurse the Tatiman for 10 months, and continued pumping and giving him ‘shots’ of breast milk until he was a year old.

I had high hopes when I gave birth to the Finny Bo Binny. The Tatiman had been tongue tied which I had hoped factored into our issues. Finny Bo had a perfect tongue. Unfortunately, I still had imperfect boobs. I began the routine—nurse, pump, feed, rinse, repeat—but was scared to take many of the herbs and drugs because Finny had a wicked case of reflux, and I didn’t want to make anything worse for his poor tummy. Still, we managed to keep up the schedule until Finny was 5 months old, and then I pumped until he was 8 months and the breast milk ‘shots’ became breast milk ‘sips’ and life went on. I held out hope that the problem was his, rather than mine, because even when taking in massive quantities of formula on top of the breast milk, the Finny Bo Binny has never broken the 10th percentile for weight. It was possible that he was really just a slow grower on my breast milk, since he barely grew once we added formula. Possible, but not plausible.

Seven weeks ago I gave birth to my beautiful Lici girl. I naively thought the third time would be the charm. I also naively thought I could mentally prepare myself for my inability to breastfeed her without any supplementation. When reality sunk in…depression started to sink in too. But this time I was DETERMINED not to spend the first few weeks of my baby’s life feeling like a failure. So I started the herbs and tinctures and medications, and I forced myself to adopt the attitude that I would give her all the breast milk I make, and the rest is just nutrition.

Nutrition. That’s it. Formula is not the devil. Formula has kept my children alive and thriving. And I don’t mean to brag…but I have one of the smartest three year olds I’ve ever met—his IQ isn’t suffering. I have a 22 month old that is practically glued to my side—we didn’t fail to bond. And I have a 7 week old that is currently snuggled up, wrapped in a Moby, making the sweetest little cooing noises. Did I mention she can already roll? Well, she can. I think she’s going to be just fine.

I’m angry because I had to go through some very dark times to get to where I am today, and I even angrier that I have been unable to find any help in the form of answers and treatment from the medical community. In fact, my beloved lactation consultant just attended a three-day conference where under-supply did not receive a SINGLE session. How can it be that even an organization whose main goal is to promote breastfeeding is ignoring the issue? I think it’s because there is still a perception that anybody that wants to breastfeed can. And anybody who can’t is choosing formula as the easy way out. Maybe that was true one day, but it just isn’t true today. More and more of us are struggling, and I want to know why.

So for now, I nurse my baby girl as often as possible. I suck in her sweet smell, and stare into her lightening blue eyes. I rub her long toes and I pat her little tushy. I consciously use the word “nurse” to describe what we do rather than breastfeed. Nursing is caring, and loving, and attending to—and I do all of that, in spite of my milk supply.

I imagine very few of you actually care about my struggles to breastfeed, but if it makes one of you feel like you are NOT a failure, I’m glad I put it out there.