I've always been of the opinion that breasts serve two basic functions: holding up sweaters and feeding babies. Because mine were so good at the first, I assumed they would be good at the second. And why wouldn't they be? After all, I kept hearing about what a beautiful, natural act breastfeeding was. They said that if it hurt, you weren't doing it right, and once you did get it right, it released a cocktail of lovely hormones that bonded you to your baby. Not to mention that the milk itself is touted as nothing less than the food of the gods, making babies healthier and smarter, moms thinner and more resistant to breast cancer. From everything I'd heard, breastfeeding instantly turned you into one of those glowing, blissful mothers who wander barefoot through fields of wildflowers.
At this point, anyone who's actually had a child is probably laughing hysterically.
Imagine my surprise when, a week or so in, I'm sitting on the couch in the middle of the night, topless, exhausted, wondering if the very hungry creature in my arms was actually trying to rip my nipple off with his surprisingly sharp gums. I felt robbed. Where was all the bonding? The wonder? The long-haired hippie naturalness I'd been promised? Where were my god damn wildflowers?
Without getting into an obscenely detailed story about my breasts (which I've gotten entirely too comfortable telling), I'll just say this: breastfeeding sucks. It sucks for all the reasons listed here. It's painful. It's messy. It's confusing. It's constant.
But, for me, the worst part of breastfeeding was that it made me hate men. When things were at their worst, I would sit there, staring ahead, passionately hating all men. I hated men irrationally. I hated men despite the fact that the love of my life is a man and that the child I was feeding would one day be a man. I hated men as a general proposition. Mostly, I hated men for their inability to lactate and for the useless ornamental nipples that sat on their unswollen chests. I had thoughts like: if men had to breastfeed, formula would be perfected by now. And there would be something other than infomercials on in the middle of the might. And all infants would be born with the ability to eat solid food.
Then, Leo would finally get a good latch. Suddenly, the angry haze would disappear and I would be myself again.
Worry not. With much patience, a good lactation consultant, and a ridiculous assortment of feeding paraphenalia, things are getting better. And, more importantly, Leo is getting plenty to eat. But the next time I hear someone waxing poetic about the effortless wonders of breastfeeding, I will probably break their jaw.
At this point, anyone who's actually had a child is probably laughing hysterically.
Imagine my surprise when, a week or so in, I'm sitting on the couch in the middle of the night, topless, exhausted, wondering if the very hungry creature in my arms was actually trying to rip my nipple off with his surprisingly sharp gums. I felt robbed. Where was all the bonding? The wonder? The long-haired hippie naturalness I'd been promised? Where were my god damn wildflowers?
Without getting into an obscenely detailed story about my breasts (which I've gotten entirely too comfortable telling), I'll just say this: breastfeeding sucks. It sucks for all the reasons listed here. It's painful. It's messy. It's confusing. It's constant.
But, for me, the worst part of breastfeeding was that it made me hate men. When things were at their worst, I would sit there, staring ahead, passionately hating all men. I hated men irrationally. I hated men despite the fact that the love of my life is a man and that the child I was feeding would one day be a man. I hated men as a general proposition. Mostly, I hated men for their inability to lactate and for the useless ornamental nipples that sat on their unswollen chests. I had thoughts like: if men had to breastfeed, formula would be perfected by now. And there would be something other than infomercials on in the middle of the might. And all infants would be born with the ability to eat solid food.
Then, Leo would finally get a good latch. Suddenly, the angry haze would disappear and I would be myself again.
Worry not. With much patience, a good lactation consultant, and a ridiculous assortment of feeding paraphenalia, things are getting better. And, more importantly, Leo is getting plenty to eat. But the next time I hear someone waxing poetic about the effortless wonders of breastfeeding, I will probably break their jaw.
I remember those precise emotions, especially when feeding Darren (though I don't think I ever captured them so eloquently and precisely!) Glad you have a consultant to help!
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