I’ll be honest: I had a dreamy picture of breastfeeding in my mind. Despite hearing my friends share their struggles, I thought I would sail through the experience. The horror stories about cracked nipples, unpredictable latch, and sheer exhaustion seemed like something that happened to others, not me. I imagined cozy moments in a rocking chair, my baby girl nursing contentedly while I devoured novels and effortlessly shed the weight I gained during pregnancy, particularly from those addictive raspberry chocolate chip muffins.
I partially blame the well-meaning nurse who assured me that breastfeeding was a beautiful journey. “It’s a special experience,” she said, placing my newborn, Ava, at my breast. “You’ll get the hang of it before you know it.”
But I didn’t.
Ava arrived four weeks early, and her latch was underdeveloped, the doctors explained. They also mentioned her weak suck—a term I found oddly amusing yet disheartening. Regardless, Ava showed little interest in nursing, while my breasts, which were painfully engorged and leaking, were desperate to feed her.
Twelve hours post-delivery, I was convinced she was on the brink of starvation. She just wouldn’t stop crying. Once we got home, I collapsed onto our king-sized bed with Ava cradled on my chest, pleading with her to nurse. Finally, she latched on.
But there was a catch—she couldn’t take in much. Premature babies like Ava take longer to feed, and it often requires much more effort on their part. This meant Ava was attached to me nearly 24/7. With no family nearby and a husband whose work schedule didn’t ease after our baby arrived, I struggled to find time for basic self-care, let alone sleep.
“You two look so lovely,” my husband, Jake, said one evening, peering into the nursery. Meanwhile, dishes piled up in the sink, and laundry with spit-up sat waiting for attention. I hadn’t bothered to wash off the mascara I’d applied three days earlier in a desperate attempt to feel human. How could I look beautiful when I felt like a mess? Jake, on the other hand, looked as if he had just walked off a magazine cover.
Ava might have appeared adorable, but her feeding struggles were taking a toll. I was frantic, worried that she was losing weight while my stress seemed to balloon. I even began experiencing strange visions of angry toddlers and, oddly, my own mother as a teenager.
The situation reached a breaking point during Ava’s three-week check-up. “She’s lost weight,” Dr. Ellis said, shaking his head disapprovingly.
“I’m just breastfeeding her!” I shouted, not caring that the entire office went silent. I could feel Jake’s embarrassment radiating from across the room. The nurse poked her head in to check on the commotion. I realized I was standing over Dr. Ellis, shaking my fist. He scribbled something on a prescription pad and handed it to me without making eye contact.
The note simply read: La Leche.
I called them the moment we got home. The woman who answered sounded so chipper that it made me even angrier. Was I the only one struggling? But as she spoke, I relaxed a bit and she sensed my panic. She instructed me to buy a plastic bottle, fill it with formula, and attach it upside down on my chest with tiny tubes leading to my nipples. This way, Ava could get a bit of formula along with breast milk. Why switch to formula entirely when I could try this?
Although it felt like a compromise, I was determined to make breastfeeding work. I sent Jake out that night to gather the supplies, and with cautious optimism, I began the process.
- Prepare the formula.
- Pour it into the bottle.
- Tape the feeding tube to my breasts.
- Set Ava in position.
Sounds easy, right? Wrong.
Dealing with a squirming infant who was perpetually hungry was a monumental challenge. Her cries frayed my nerves, and I struggled to keep the feeding tube in place while ensuring Ava could latch. My husband’s patience wore thin as he listened from the other room, and I juggled a million things at once. Motherhood was not the idyllic picture I had envisioned; it was chaotic and messy.
After what felt like an eternity, Ava finally started suckling, but by then, I was too drained to enjoy the moment. And, of course, just as I cleaned up, Ava woke up again, and I had to start all over.
A week later, Dr. Ellis checked Ava’s weight. She was on the upswing, but I felt like I was falling apart. Despite that, I felt triumphant; I had pseudo-breastfed successfully.
Then one day, I decided to take a break and go for a walk with Ava in the stroller. In a moment of distraction, the stroller rolled down our porch steps, and I panicked, convinced that my child was injured. A neighbor rushed over, lifted the stroller, and to my relief, Ava began to cry. It was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. Fortunately, I’d placed a pillow under her head, preventing any serious harm.
In that moment, I vowed to change my approach. Was I really going to risk my daughter’s safety for the sake of breastfeeding? No contest. I walked back inside, tossed all the La Leche paraphernalia, and decided to switch to formula.
Within hours, Ava drank more from a bottle than she ever did at my breast, and she slept for four hours straight—the longest stretch she had ever achieved. I finally got some much-needed rest too.
When we woke up, the room was filled with soft light. A raspberry chocolate chip muffin sat on the nightstand, a small gesture of love from Jake. I took a bite, smiled at Ava, and she blinked back at me. Our journey together was just beginning.
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