By: Jenna Thompson
Updated: Feb. 12, 2021
Originally Published: Jan. 22, 2012
I have to confess: I idealized the concept of breastfeeding. Despite hearing my closest friends share their struggles, I was convinced that the horror stories of cracked nipples, unpredictable latch, and overwhelming fatigue were experiences meant for others, not me. I pictured serene moments in a cozy rocking chair, with my baby daughter nursing peacefully as I lost the weight I gained during my pregnancy—mostly from indulging in raspberry chocolate chip muffins as if they were water. The vision was clear: I’d bond with my daughter and effortlessly shed the extra pounds.
I partly blame the well-meaning nurse who assured me, “Breastfeeding is such a beautiful experience.” She placed my daughter, whom I named Emily, at my breast with the promise that I would soon master this special art. Spoiler alert: I didn’t.
Emily arrived four weeks early, and doctors noted her underdeveloped sucking reflex, which felt like an insult yet was a bit amusing in the chaotic world of new motherhood. Despite my body’s eagerness to nourish her, Emily showed little interest in breastfeeding. My breasts were large, leaking uncontrollably, and painful, while she seemed completely indifferent.
Twelve hours after Emily’s birth, panic set in. She wouldn’t stop crying, and I feared she would starve. Once we were home, I laid back in bed, my daughter sprawled on my chest, pleading with her to nurse. Finally, she latched on—but only to struggle.
Feeding a premature baby can be a marathon, not a sprint. Emily took forever to nurse, and I found myself tethered to my bed, unable to step away even for a moment. With no family nearby and my husband, Matt, working long hours, I was left with barely an hour each day to shower, eat, or even brush my teeth.
“You both look wonderful,” Matt said one evening, peeking into the nursery. Meanwhile, dishes piled high in the sink and laundry awaited me. I had last put on mascara three days ago, and even that felt pointless. My husband, fresh from work, looked well-rested and put together, while I felt like I’d been through a tornado.
While Emily may have looked sweet, her feeding sessions became increasingly challenging. My focus was solely on nourishing her, but it felt like I was failing. I could see her dwindling weight and my own frustration growing out of control. My mind even conjured visions of my mother as a teenager and irate toddlers lurking in the corners—definitely not a good sign.
Three weeks in, a visit to the pediatrician confirmed my fears. “She’s lost weight,” Dr. Howard said, his disapproving gaze piercing through me as if I were on trial. “All I do is breastfeed her!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the busy office like a knife. My husband’s face turned crimson as I realized I was practically shaking my fist at the doctor. All he did was jot something down and hand me a prescription for La Leche.
Back home, I called them immediately. The woman on the line sounded cheerful and composed—just what I didn’t need. She instructed me to buy a special feeding system that would allow Emily to receive formula along with my breast milk. The idea felt somewhat like cheating, but I was desperate to provide the best for my daughter.
With a mix of hope and skepticism, I sent Matt out to gather the supplies. Once back, I set up the system: formula in a bottle, feeding tubes taped to my breasts, and Emily positioned to latch on. Sounds simple, right? Wrong.
Trying to manage a hungry, squirming baby was a Herculean task. Emily screamed as I fumbled to keep everything in place. My nerves frayed, I was swamped with noises, my stomach growled, and my daughter’s snotty nose didn’t help the situation. Motherhood wasn’t the fairytale I expected; it was chaotic and messy—just as my grandmother had warned.
After what felt like an eternity, Emily finally started suckling. But by the time I cleaned up, she was wide awake again, ready to start the whole feeding saga over.
A week later, Dr. Howard noted that Emily had gained weight. I was relieved, even if I felt like I was losing my mind. I had pseudo-breastfed successfully, and despite the judgment from friends who viewed formula as a forbidden elixir, I felt a small sense of victory.
Four weeks in, I decided it was time for a breather. I took Emily for a stroll but turned my back for mere seconds, and in that moment, the stroller rolled down the steps, tipping over. My heart dropped as I imagined the worst. Thankfully, a neighbor rushed over, and Emily started crying—her voice was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. It turned out that a pillow had cushioned her fall, saving her.
Overwhelmed with gratitude, I recognized that I needed to make a change. Would I prefer a formula-fed child or a breastfeeding experience that risked Emily’s safety due to my exhaustion? It was a no-brainer.
That day, I went inside, tossed all the La Leche supplies, and took a hot shower. I wrapped my breasts tightly and decided to end breastfeeding. Two hours later, Emily devoured formula from a bottle far quicker than she ever had at my breast, and then she slept for four blissful hours—the longest stretch we’d both experienced.
When we awoke, the room was filled with warm light, and a raspberry chocolate chip muffin sat on my nightstand. I took a bite, silently thanked Matt, and smiled at Emily, who blinked back at me. Our journey together was about to truly begin.
For more insights on the journey of parenthood, check out this resource, or explore intracervical insemination for further reading. And if you’re considering conception options, Make a Mom provides valuable insights on your fertility journey.
Summary
This heartfelt journey through the challenges of breastfeeding a premature baby highlights the unexpected struggles and emotional rollercoaster faced by new mothers. From the initial romanticized views to the chaotic realities, the author shares their experience of overcoming obstacles and ultimately finding a nurturing solution in a more manageable feeding method.