On Breast Feeding

I felt guilty, at first, that I did not feel guilty about feeding my roughly 12-hour-old baby with a bottle full of formula.

The choice was basically this: let a night nurse feed my baby formula and get to close my eyes, at midnight, for the first time since roughly 6 am (after about 3 hours sleep the previous night), or, hold a tiny screaming baby as firmly as I could against my torso, trying desperately to avoid coming in any contact with the fresh C-section incision while a 6 lb., 11 oz. person screamed his head off and pushed himself away from me with both arms and both legs.

It was not the most difficult decision I've ever made.

I half-heartedly protested, "But, won't it make it harder to breast feed? Nipple confusion? Or something?" I was so tired; I couldn't keep my eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time. They gently assured me that it wouldn't make a difference and took him away to the nursery for the night.

The truth is, there were a few reasons I did eventually feel guilty for not breast-feeding, but none of them had anything to do with my son's nutrition. For the record, I must state here (as all formula-feeding moms must): formula is a perfectly healthy thing to feed your child. I must add, too, that it is certainly better than the alternative… which was nothing, as Liam and I simply could not make breastfeeding happen.

I felt bad that I should have theoretically been able to feed him for free instead of renting a breast pump for $60 a month and buying supplemental formula for about $40 a box. It bothered me that cave women could figure this out—as proven by the survival of the species—instinctively. Without books to encourage them or the language with which to discuss methods with girlfriends and sisters-in-law. And yet, with all the technology available to a middle class white girl in the year 2012, I could not, and it made me feel—not like less of a woman or a bad mother—but like I was kind of an idiot.

Most of all, it had been made clear to me by almost all of the (admittedly otherwise completely wonderful) hospital staff, including my doctors who I absolutely loved, that, when I said (while pregnant, delirious, and having never attempted anything of the sort) that I planned to breast feed, I had answered the question correctly. Yes, they were all good enough to assure me that they would never have chastised me for choosing formula, and I truly believe I never would have known, had I answered differently, that anybody even remotely disapproved.

But they were always relieved to hear my response.

The reality is, in the month leading up to the three days I tried and failed at breast-feeding, I'd had two major eye surgeries, leaving me legally blind in one eye, and completely blind in the other. I'd given birth by C-section, a decision hastily made less than three weeks before the due date. I will be honest, here, and admit that this change bothered me (someone who HATES change) not even slightly. This was, of course, before I had any idea what the recovery would be like, but I still do not regret the choice. And not just because the alternative surely would have included at least one, but more likely both of my eyeballs exploding out of my head (note: this claim was not substantiated by anybody in the medical profession. But, come on.).

Anyway, the point is, roughly one month before my son was due to be born, I had no plans for even one surgery, much less three. I had no plans to ever have eye surgery. And so, when it came time to try breast-feeding, I'd arguably gone through enough already to give myself permission to throw in the towel on SOMETHING without feeling too bad about it.

The other reality, honestly, is that breast feeding, to me anyway, sounded like a horrifying activity. The thought that I, one of the most conservative people I know when it comes to exposing my body, might have to take my boob out IN PUBLIC made me so nervous and uncomfortable, it was as if I were imagining the dream of going to school naked come true.

I realize all of what I am about to say is going to sound judgey, and I really don't mean it to. But, I understand that this is such a sensitive issue that it’s hard to read this without hearing it with at least a slightly bitchy tone.

Let me start by saying that I have never spoken to any woman who has made me feel bad for choosing the formula route once I had done so. My wonderful sister-in-law, Anne, was the one who (upon spotting the hospital grade breast pump in a corner of our apartment) asked about it, and promised immediately to have my back if anybody gave me crap if I decided to make the full switch to formula. It's not like I was looking for permission, at least I don't think I was, but hearing that pledge of support somehow freed me to tell my husband that I was ready to quit the pump. He, for the record, was relieved.

What I mean to say is, I know some people have very strong opinions re: breast-feeding. I do not currently have any friends who are moms, and I have not encountered any judgment for feeding my bundle of joy something as unnatural as formula. At least, as far as I know. But I know there are women out there who feel very strongly about this stuff. I've heard phrases like, "it would break my heart if I had to feed my baby formula." I honestly do not understand this thought process, and I mean that as a criticism of myself (if anyone), not the women who are so devoted to feeding their babies with what God gave them. It is simply a foreign concept to me, and I won't claim to have obsessed over it or anything, but there have been moments where I have wondered if maybe I'm missing some essential gene that those women possessed. In the end, I think I can say that I think women who are able to firmly grasp the art of breast-feeding are honorable and impressive people and I envy, slightly, their dedication and their devotion and their confidence. They know, without question, that what they are doing for their children is what is best. I don't. All I know is, it's not for Liam and me. And most days, I'm ok with that.
Now that he is old enough, I make his baby food from scratch, but I'm no saint. Those little jars of food at the grocery store are pretty appealing. I just can't drive to the store by myself. And I may or may not be a total control freak when it comes to food. Whatever.

For more of my feelings on this subject, please consult Bossypants by Tina Fey specifically Chapter 20, “There’s a Drunk Midget in my House.” Wait, you haven’t’ read it, yet? What are you, a communist?!