I’ll be honest: I had a rather idealistic view of breastfeeding. Despite hearing my friends share their struggles, I thought those horror stories of cracked nipples, unpredictable infants, and sheer exhaustion were simply not going to happen to me. I pictured myself in a cozy rocking chair, my baby daughter nursing peacefully while I indulged in novels, effortlessly shedding the weight I had gained during pregnancy—weight I had accumulated while devouring raspberry chocolate chip muffins like they were water. I believed the pounds would vanish, and my daughter and I would create an unbreakable bond.
I partly blame the bedside nurse who assured me that I would get the hang of breastfeeding in no time. “It’s such a beautiful experience,” she said while placing my daughter, Mia, at my breast. I quickly learned that “getting used to it” was not in the cards for me.
Mia was born four weeks early, and the doctors explained that her bite was still developing. They discussed her weak suck—a term that struck me as both insulting and amusing, given the complexities of childbirth. Regardless of her so-called weak suck, Mia showed little interest in nursing. My breasts—oversized, leaking without warning, and painful—had different ideas and longed to nourish her.
Twelve hours after Mia’s birth, I was convinced she would starve. She wouldn’t stop crying. Once we were back home, I lay on our king-sized bed, resembling a beached whale, with Mia cradled on top of me, pleading for her to nurse and sleep. Eventually, she latched on and stayed there. The challenge? She wasn’t able to take in much.
Premature babies often take longer to feed due to their underdeveloped sucking reflexes. This meant Mia was attached to me almost around the clock. With no family nearby and a husband whose workaholic nature didn’t change with our new arrival, I had just one frantic hour to sleep, shower, and tidy the house. Forget about brushing my teeth!
“You two look lovely,” my husband remarked one evening as he entered the nursery after work. Meanwhile, the kitchen sink overflowed with dirty dishes, and piles of spit-up shirts awaited me in the laundry room. I hadn’t even bothered to remove the mascara I’d applied days earlier in a desperate attempt to feel somewhat normal. He looked fresh and well-rested, which only fueled my irritation.
While Mia appeared serene, her feeding attempts were increasingly fraught with difficulty. My sole focus was ensuring she received proper nutrition, but every tactic I tried to streamline the process seemed futile. Mia seemed to shrink while my frustration ballooned. I even began to see visions of angry toddlers and flashbacks of my mother as a teenager.
The hallucinations were unnerving, but nothing compared to the realization of who I had become when, three weeks post-birth, we visited the pediatrician. “She’s lost weight,” Dr. Smith remarked disapprovingly, peering over his glasses as if looking for evidence of my failures as a mother.
“I’m breastfeeding her constantly!” I exclaimed, my voice louder than intended. My husband’s face turned beet-red in embarrassment. When a nurse peeked in, perhaps to ensure we were still alive, I caught myself towering over Dr. Smith, shaking my fist in his direction. I was determined to prove my mothering abilities.
He scribbled something on a prescription pad, handed it over without a glance, and left the room. The note read “La Leche.”
Once home, I called the organization and was greeted by a woman whose cheerful demeanor only irked me further. Was everyone around me composed and capable while I was floundering? After a moment, I managed to calm down and listen as she advised me to buy a special plastic bottle, fill it with formula, and attach it to my chest with feeding tubes. This would allow Mia to receive both formula and breast milk simultaneously—no need to switch to formula entirely.
While it felt somewhat half-hearted, I was determined to achieve the breastfeeding experience I had envisioned. I sent my husband on a mission to gather the supplies, and he was eager to help. Armed with newfound hope, I set up the supplemental nursing system.
- Prepare formula.
- Pour liquid into bottle.
- Tape feeding tube to breasts.
- Squeeze to ensure the formula flowed at just the right speed.
- Set infant on breast.
Simple, right? Wrong.
Juggling a squirming, hungry baby is no easy task. Mia’s cries only heightened my anxiety. The tape slipped, and I fumbled to keep the tube in place while trying to open her mouth wide enough to accommodate both my sore nipple and the feeding apparatus. My husband grumbled from the next room, the phone wouldn’t stop ringing, my stomach growled, and my breasts leaked. This was not the serene picture I had painted. My grandmother’s words echoed in my mind: motherhood is messy.
After what felt like an eternity, Mia finally began to suckle, and I was too exhausted to savor the moment. Once I cleaned up, though, Mia was awake again, and I had to start the process all over.
A week later, Dr. Smith checked Mia’s weight, and to my relief, she was gaining. I couldn’t ignore how drained I felt in all other aspects of my life, but I had successfully pseudo-breastfed. Despite the judgment from friends equating formula with poison, I felt a sense of triumph. I was a capable mother.
Four weeks later, I decided to take a break and went for a walk with Mia in the stroller. In a moment of distraction, I forgot to set the brake, and within seconds, the stroller rolled down the steps, tipping over. Panic seized me as I feared the worst.
A neighbor rushed to help, lifting the stroller off Mia, who began crying immediately. It was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. Luckily, a pillow I’d placed under her head had cushioned her fall. At least I had done something right.
Thankful for Mia’s safety, I realized I needed to make a change. Would I rather have a formula-fed child or a breastfed baby at risk due to my exhaustion? The answer was clear.
That day, I walked back inside, discarding all the La Leche materials. After a hot shower and a tight wrap around my breasts, I decided to stop breastfeeding for good. Just two hours later, Mia consumed double the amount of formula from a bottle in a fraction of the time, then she slept for four straight hours—the longest stretch yet.
And mercifully, I got some sleep too.
When we both awoke, the sunlight filled the room. On the nightstand lay a raspberry chocolate chip muffin. I took a bite, silently thanking my husband for his small acts of kindness, and smiled at Mia. She blinked back at me, and I knew our life together was just beginning.
Summary:
Breastfeeding a premature baby can be a challenging and exhausting journey. Lila Thompson shares her personal experience of the difficulties she faced when trying to nurse her daughter, Mia, who was born four weeks early. Despite her initial hopes for a serene breastfeeding experience, Lila encountered numerous obstacles, including Mia’s weak suck and the overwhelming pressure of motherhood. After a series of frustrating attempts and a sobering encounter with a pediatrician, she found a solution through a supplemental nursing system. Ultimately, Lila made the decision to switch to formula, realizing it was in their best interest for both her and Mia’s well-being.
Keyphrase: breastfeeding a preemie
Tags: home insemination kit, home insemination syringe, self insemination