Disclaimer: this post contains references to breast, breastfeeding, lactation and other gross-outable material. So, reading beyond this may be at readers discretion.
My facebook page is inundated by messages from people hailing the world breast feeding week. Anywhere I look, I am being told about the greatness of breastfeeding and how every woman who has given birth must breast feed for the sake of their baby and for their own sake.
I am tempted to write this post only to voice the opinion of some of us who didn’t find the act of breast feeding so “satisfying” or “fulfilling” after all.
To start with, I was not a willing pregnant woman. I had postponed getting pregnant as much as I could and relented only when I ran out of any more excuses to postpone. I could not accept that my carefully dieted and exercised body was being blown out of proportion literally by another force within me. Despite the fact that I had no obvious discomforts from being pregnant, the use of my body to make this baby seemed very disturbing to me. Sometimes I would argue that birds laying an egg seemed more logical, than mammals carrying another living kicking creature inside them. Because when I thought about it, after the fertilization and creation of an embryo, that is its own entity and if it was laid outside the body and developed on its own, much like a chick, it seemed more sensible.
When I encountered other pregnant women, who seemd to glow and gloat about their pregnancy and how their ultrasounds were oh so cute, I cringed inside, because I didn’t think the fetus in me was any different from an alien from outer space. I didn’t feel this enveloping love or affection for other children cooing from car seats or strollers. I was unwilling to make friends with the women at the maternity stores who felt the sisterhood of the protruding tummies much more strongly that I did. And I once almost slapped a woman for trying to touch my stomach.
And don’t get me wrong here. I did everything I should do to protect the wellbeing of the child within me. I stayed away from every hyper energizing fluid known to mankind, stopped coloring my hair, even getting pedicures to avoid the pungent acetone fumes, ate the right amount of calories, exercised morning and evening, and religiously gulped down the tasteless protein powders to supplement my vegetarianism. I listened to Mozart, MS Subbalakshmi, Thiruvasagam, Shakira, Sean Paul and NPR news with equal zeal, all for the future genius of the bun in my oven.
My experiences at the pre-natal classes, which repeated information that I already knew, and were designed for women who didn’t do any reading on their own, kindled the easily irritable rebel in me. The meticulous researcher in me was reading and absorbing every detail about the miracle of human/ mammalian birth. As much of a wonder it posed to me, and as much as I was amazed by the evolution of mammalian systems, I even started exploring possibilities of this being a result of intelligent design.
However, predominant amongst all my feelings was that a woman’s body undergoes some irreversible changes because of pregnancy and childbirth, but it was never discussed or mentioned during any of these meetings. Any close friend of mine that I spoke to said that their bodies were not the same as before they had their child(ren). However, brushed it aside as those were alright and they accepted those changes matter of factly. Being a person of independent thought and actions and a positive body image, I was intimidated by their stories of accepting the tummy flab that refused to go away, the raised cholesterol, Blood pressure levels which might need medication for the rest of their lives, the nagging back pain that never went away or the sagging breasts that testified to all that they had been through.
As days to the birth were numbered, we purchased all the items required for easy child rearing including the dreaded breast pump. I was filled with repulsion at the idea of my breasts being ”put to use”, as if they were items from a utility kit. I was simultaneously filled with the immense responsibility of putting all the right things on the blank slate I was about to be given. Putting the right things in the child’s mind and body. This pressure was all encompassing and I constantly worried about whether I could fulfil this enormous job.
And then the much dreaded moment came. The baby was born and was about to be placed at my breast to consume the precious colostrum. As all the triggers in my rational brain egged me on to do the right thing, I felt the entire other half of my brain stiffen up at the looming prospect. The baby promptly bit me so hard that I cried out aloud and my eyes were rolling with tears. In the next few days, I worked closely with a breast feeding consultant who was convinced that I was being selfish and was simply being vain, and I tried to forget that the next feeding, was only an hour away. I was not at all thrilled by any gnawing or sucking at my already sensitive and painfully engorged breasts.
I opted to use the breast pump instead. This seemed like a slightly better option as the milk could now be stored in the refrigerator, others could feed the child and most importantly I could avoid the “use” of my breasts by this child which was in other ways changing my life in every miniscule way, during every minute of the day.
However, the work of feeding the baby breast milk, was extremely overwhelming and put enormous performance pressure on me. Compounded with severe bouts of post partum depression, I supplemented with formula and then was added more guilt about what I was putting into this tiny baby’s tummy. I was torn between being unable to bring myself to let the baby feed on me, to refuse to give the baby what only my body was producing and then to give him formula, to escape from this all.
After nearly 5 months of struggling to find the right balance, lugging the breast pump and its paraphernalia to my office and home, praying that the daycare wont dump the remainder of the breast milk I gave them, one day, my husband asked me why I didn’t consider switching to formula full time. If it was causing me so much angst, he thought I might be better off with the easier way out. It seemed as if I was only waiting for someone to suggest this to me. A week later, I had weaned off the pumping and the lactation dwindled.
Much to my relief, I felt extremely relieved with the removal of this extra work. I had more time and energy to spend with the baby and appreciated him more than just a creature that demanded so much from me. My days became easier with only having to provide the formula, which our pediatrician assured us, was just as great, to the daycare. I didn’t need to carry refrigerated packs or freezer gels wherever I went in order to preserve the milk when we went out. The quality of all of our lives improved dramatically.
In 3 years, my bond with my son is the greatest I can imagine. I love him for the little person he is. I didn’t fall in love with the ultrasound image, or with the little alien in the hospital blanket, just because I gave birth to him. This slow process of loving tells me that despite the actual breast feeding or lack thereof, the relationship I have with him is superior to all else.
So, if you are a woman reading this and at sometime doubted the hype behind the bond between mother and child developed by the breast feeding act, rest assured, the bond will be created no matter what and don’t fret if choose not to do it. You only need to do the best you can.
On my own 