On the road to reclaiming my boobs, so why am I so sad?

Today, I bought a can of formula and a box of rice cereal for my 5-month old, and I'm gonna need a minute to mourn over this.

Remy and I were/are extremely lucky in terms of breastfeeding and nursing. We both caught on right away after he was born and pretty much had zero problems with it from Day One. I had some anxiety about it initially, but only because my milk hadn't come in yet and I had no clue if he was getting anything during the few days after his birth in the hospital (he was). I was also only comfortable nursing him in the "football" position, and no other position, for the longest time. But other than that, it's been smooth sailing. He latches correctly and easily, my milk came in on time and I have yet to have any health issues come up (mastitis, thrush, etc). For a little while, I had a dry spot of skin under one nipple, probably due to how he was latching. But it wasn't painful, and after awhile it went away. My nipples would also get a little tender here and there, especially if I forgot to slather on nipple butter after nursing and/or pumping several times in a row, but as long as I remembered to apply it, my nipples were aces. And now, after five months of breastfeeding, my nipples are tough enough to get through nursing and pumping in a day's time without any discomfort whatsoever. I still put the nipple butter on at night before bed, but it's not like I have to. (Have you ever seen the word 'nipple' so much in one paragraph?)

A few weeks after he was born, I started stockpiling my milk in bags in the freezer, in anticipation of going back to work and him going to daycare (aka grandma's house) three days a week. In a typical day, I was usually able to pump a few ounces a couple of times to freeze, while also keeping a stockpile of fresh milk in the refrigerator, plus nursing him for almost every feeding. At one point, I thought I was going to have to buy more bottles to stock milk in the fridge because I was using every single one at any given time. I felt confident and assured that my baby would have milk for weeks and weeks to come. What I didn't think about, however, was the fact that his appetite would grow right along with him. Duh, mom.

As soon as I went back to work, I delved into the frozen milk and stocked grandma up with my reserves. I remember giving her an entire month's worth and thinking she wouldn't need any more for weeks.... um, yeah, after like a week, she informed me she was almost out and would need more soon. Fuuuuuuck. And it only got worse from that point on, because he was no longer just taking in a measly 2 oz per feeding.

Fast forward to today, and at five months old, Remy eats about 6 oz per feeding. On the days I work, I pump maybe 10 oz, give or take. This kid eats several times a day because sometimes he'll just graze and other times he takes down a bottle of milk like I take down a bottle of wine (no shame in my game). So with that math: hello formula.

Just to be clear, I'm not anti-formula AT ALL. In fact, we had to supplement his feedings with formula when he first came home from the hospital so he could get back to birth weight, and I was in it to win it. Whatever it took, I was more than happy to do it. I don't want my baby to be hangry ever. But let's be honest: when one is tasked with a job (feeding the baby) and then falls short on that job (not enough milk for the baby), there are going to be feelings about it. I don't necessarily feel like a failure, per se, but I do wish I produced more milk or had started stockpiling earlier or had the mental fortitude to wake up every two hours overnight to pump and keep my milk stocked so that he can continue to exclusively have breastmilk until he's at least six months old. I mean, I do what I can, right? Sometimes a night waking turns into a 3am pump session, and while I'm not always thrilled to do it, I appreciate the opportunity since I had to get up anyway. I still pump at work and try to do so at least 2-3 times during the work day. I try to eat oatmeal as often as possible in an effort to boost my milk production. I also drink more beer *wink* to boost milk *wink* because that's a thing, right? *wink* Plus, I know that despite the inevitability of him having to start formula and solids, he will still get breastmilk inserted into his daily eats for several more months, probably until he's at least a year old.

But honestly, now that I've had to open the formula can and start feeding rice cereal, I'm feeling a bit sad, because it all translates to the fact that my baby is getting bigger. His appetite is growing, he is growing, and he's no longer the tiny little person I birthed and brought home five months ago. His needs are expanding and it's time for him to start learning how to eat solids and use a spoon and fill out college applications (cue ugly crying face). I remember one night when he was only a couple months old, I was nursing him at 2am and I was talking to him about how soon he wouldn't need to nurse in the middle of the night and how much I would miss our middle of the night rendezvous where it was just the two of us, bonding in a sleep-deprived haze.

I have to admit, there are a few benefits to him getting bigger and his eating becoming more advanced. For starters, the incidence of him projectile vomiting his entire feeding doesn't happen much anymore, if at all. Let me tell you, there is nothing more heartbreaking than watching your baby full on projectile pukeface all that precious breastmilk all over himself and you after a feeding. It's shocking, because you've probably only imagined what you look like puking with momentum after a night of drinking, and then you see your baby up close and personal shoot a couple ounces of milk out of his mouth and it may as well be 3 gallons because that's what it looks like and now your crotch is soaked in milk, you don't have anymore milk in your boobs for the time being because you just fed it all to the baby and you're under the impression that he must be starving again now that his dinner is running down your legs. In fact, Remy basically ruined my first postpartum beer with a milk eruption (it's ok; it was just a Bud Light). In general, medium to larger spit ups seemed to decrease the older he got, which wasn't a bad thing.

Another benefit is that other people can feed him and it's not all on mom to do this 24/7. Again, we were very lucky that Remy took a bottle, breastfed and used pacifiers all without having the dreaded nipple confusion that so many fear. Now I will say that sometimes he more readily takes the breast over the bottle, especially if he's in a mood. Also, as per the advice of a mommy blog, I registered and got a few different brands of bottle in order to figure out which ones work best for him. I was hoping he'd have no problems with any of the brands and take them all with ease, but he does have his favorites, so the bottles that he doesn't care for are just collecting dust. I'm hoping that as he gets older, he will be less picky about bottles and will take whatever he's given. Fingers crossed.

Like I said before, we were extremely lucky in the breastfeeding department. I know not all moms are able to say this, so I know just how fortunate I am. And while I will eventually be happy that my boobs will be my own again one day and I won't have to worry about pumping or nursing every few hours (Um, pumping and breastfeeding are both FUCKING EXHAUSTING tasks) and I can turn on my stomach at night in bed without feeling like my chest is going to explode, for now I'm sad over the idea that my baby is growing up and eventually won't need me for breastmilk anymore. Sure, he'll still need me to buy him mac and cheese at the store, but it's not the same. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go pump.

(Someone needs to invent a nursing/nap table. Basically, it's a massage table you'd lay facedown on with holes for your boobs to go through and then you can pump milk and nap at the same time. Someone make this now and give one to me. PLEASE. )

My body may not be a wonderland, but it's not your fucking concern anyway

There were many things about pregnancy that I didn't even anticipate or think about, but the one thing that really chapped my constipated ass was the nonstop flow of comments about my body from EVERYONE. I was wholly unprepared for the barrage of verbal observations about how big I was (there's a human inside me, ok?) or how I was carrying (low is a boy, high is a girl, no low is a girl, high is a boy) or how my skin looked (I got mostly compliments on this, so I can't complain) and was I having twins (nope).

I mean, I expected a certain amount of commentary from family or friends, and 99% of the time the comments were harmless and didn't bother me. I work with adults with mental illness, and let me tell you, they don't hold anything back. (Not that having a mental illness automatically means you're intrusive and rude to pregnant women, but for me, this was the case a lot.) I had to explain to people more than once how impolite it is to make unsolicited comments about a pregnant woman to a pregnant woman. A few times I replied with exasperation "HAS NO ONE EVER SEEN A PREGNANT PERSON BEFORE?? THIS IS NOT A NEW THING!" I pretty much had to endure this bullshit from about halfway through my second trimester up until my last day before maternity leave. It was fucking awesome, let me tell you.

Even my co-workers made comments aloud about the size of my boobs or how I was carrying or asked me if I had the linea nigra; speaking of that, one day towards the end of my pregnancy I was so tired of the questions and comments, and when a coworker asked if I had linea nigra, I just lifted up my shirt to show her my belly so she could see for herself. I was done. 

I know most people meant well with their questions and comments. I definitely felt like since this pregnancy was successful, I should've been more than happy to endure the inquisitions and observations that seemed to occur almost constantly from everyone. And don't get me wrong, I was deeply appreciative of the people who simply asked me how I was doing and feeling and how my pregnancy was going. It was really just the scrutinizing commentary about my body from people I'm not close to at all that irritated the piss out of me. 

Take a tip from me: find something else to talk about with a pregnant woman besides her body, because that shit's just rude. 

Third time's the charm

Pregnancy after miscarriage is like a canister of cinnamon rolls: you're terrified to pop open the pressure seal, but you forge ahead because you know the end result is a delicious breakfast pastry. Mmmmmmm, breakfast. 

This time around, I asked for progesterone a few months into the pregnancy. As I mentioned before, all my hormone levels tested normally, but those tests were done when I wasn't pregnant and I'd done some reading about low progesterone possibly causing miscarriage, so I asked my doc if I could take it this time. She okay-ed it, telling me that even if it ultimately didn't help my pregnancy, it wouldn't harm anything. I took it for a month. Now I don't know if this is what helped this baby stick; all I know is that if we pursue another baby in the future, I'll ask for this med again. Oh, and I had to stick the capsule up my vag every night before bed. That was new for me, but pretty unremarkable overall. I dropped one on the ground once and elected to not apply the 5-second rule since it was going up in my business.   

This third pregnancy was the charm, but for about 90% of it, I was in a constant state of muted terror, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Two miscarriages in a row had pretty much convinced me that a baby was not meant to be, so you can imagine how anxiety-inducing this pregnancy was. Every single trip to the bathroom for the next 9 months involved checking my underwear for bleeding. Every week that passed made me wonder how many more weeks I had before something happened to the baby. I remember feeling like this pregnancy was nothing more than a roadblock to drinking, because I was so convinced it wouldn't last. (Told you I love the booze!) Even during the week before my scheduled c-section, I was paranoid when I didn't feel him kick or move every single hour of the day. Hearing from a friend their story about a friend who'd had two (count 'em: TWO) babies die in utero at nine months was not a helpful conversation AT ALL. 

I had an early ultrasound due to my previous losses and overall had a couple more ultrasounds than normal. I asked my husband to come with me to the first two so I wouldn't have to endure any bad news alone this time around. Maybe he was the lucky charm, because those ultrasounds showed the baby doing just fine. (Random sidenote: I don't have any sonogram pics from my second pregnancy because by the time I had the first ultrasound, the baby had already died. The tech had asked me if I wanted pics anyway, and I declined. Now I kind of wish I had. I just remember feeling too heartbroken at the time, and the thought of looking at a sonogram pic of my lifeless baby was too much to bear.)


For the duration of this pregnancy, I remember thinking how strange it was that whenever I saw my OB for appointments, she was really happy and upbeat, because I was always so nervous and assuming bad news was going to be sprung on me at any moment. She told me that I should try not to worry and that every pregnancy is different and that things were fine this time. I remember thinking that she was crazy for saying that after she had performed two D&Cs on me. I was confused as to why she wasn't more cautious, like I was being. I don't necessarily regret not letting my guard down for my own emotional protection, but I do wish I could've relaxed more and enjoyed the pregnancy for longer than I did. I didn't really start to relax and enjoy being pregnant until I was in the third trimester, and by then the time is going by so fast it's hard to savor being pregnant. Not to mention that the third trimester is when you pee every ten minutes, your cootchie cat feels like it's been kicked by a mule, Braxton-Hicks contractions are happening every hour or two, you probably haven't gotten laid in awhile, rolling over in bed has become an Olympic event and your back/neck/legs/hips/feet hurt like a motherfucker.  

While this pregnancy was not without its hitches, (constant anxiety, gestational diabetes) I was healthy overall and not a thing was wrong with the baby. Well, he was breech for most of the pregnancy, which is why I had to get a c-section. My doc asked me if I wanted to try a version, where they try to turn the baby from the outside by pushing and massaging on my belly. After some deliberation and discussion with ladies who have had it done, I decided it wasn't for me and scheduled my c-section. 

I know a lot of people assume c-sections are not as difficult as vaginal deliveries. I am here to tell you that they are just as big of a deal, in their own special sliced-open-like-a-fish kind of way. More on that in a separate post. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go eat some cinnamon rolls.