The (Un)Graceful Art of Breastfeeding

I'm in the Mac store the other day and I feel that my shirt is wet for some reason. I look down and see a small wet circle getting larger and larger before my eyes. I have started to leak. My son is 5 months old and I was told early on that the leaking stops. This is a lie. But what is even more dumb is my insistence each day that perhaps this is the day that I will stop leaking. I had forgotten to put on those handy absorbing bra pads so again I am reminded that my breasts still leak milk. I had no idea that these bra pads would be so integral to my everyday fashion. They are lying all over the house. Used, new, the wrappers, the re-usable kind... I have tried all brands and sizes. I change them more than I change my underwear. And I have unintentionally left them in various places through out Los Angeles county. Stuck to the table at some fancy restaurant (probably covering up some poor waiter's tip), on my dashboard, in Kien's car seat, restroom countertops. I have also found them a few days later accompanied by my new common phrase, "Oooohhhh, that's where that is." I have rediscovered them inside the leg of my pants, in my dog's mouth, stuck to the washing machine, caught in my hair, etc. Even stuck to the back of my shirt as I am walking out the door. I am at one with the bra pad. This does not mean that I enjoy wearing them. While they do work, it feels like I have two giant maxi pads stuck in my bra. And let's talk about, for just one quick second, about how crappy it is when you realize that you have stuck the wrong side to your breast. Instead of the semi-soft, absorbent side against my breast, I have accidentally placed the plastic side against my nipple. You know, the side that has the sticky part which helps it to stay put in your bra. Try ripping that sticky tape off of your boob when you're in a hurry.

Before Kien was born I knew that I was definitely going to be breastfeeding. There was no question. I did have a few issues in the beginning, but I was one of the lucky ones who managed to survive the first few weeks without actually losing something valuable, like say, a nipple. It was one of those things that no matter how many people tried to warn me, it would never have come close to what it truly felt like. Take "engorgement" for example. Before you experience it, you think that your breasts will get larger and fill with milk. Okay, one or two cup sizes. Not a problem. I am prepared to handle that. No one told me that engorgement might also mean it is possible for one breast to stay the same, while the other becomes ENORMOUS. Not one or two cup sizes larger, let's be conservative and say five cups larger. And it's not just the size that I was freaking out about. Let's talk about how completely weird my one breast felt. Hard. Very Hard. Full of knots. And HEAVY! Let's imagine filling a balloon with small pebbles and then tying that to your chest. Your swimming days are over. It's just as well, you'd never be able to find a bathing suit to cover up the anomaly. Just to make sure you have the full image in your mind I will attach fruit to the analogy. One side is a small grapefruit, the other side is an extra large cantaloupe.

We call the lactation consultant to come over immediately. She doesn't even flinch. Apparently, this happens all the time. Yet, I don't remember these warnings in my "Breastfeeding 101" class. Then she tries to get me to hold my newborn baby to my breast with one hand, and hold my 10 lb. breast with the other hand. AS IF women do this successfully all the time. I could not. I failed miserably. Excuse me, but I forgot to do hand strengthening exercises before the baby arrived. I was not only supposed to hold my overly engorged breast with one hand but then she wanted me to have precise control over it so that I could guide it into his mouth. By the time we actually got my baby to eat, three people were involved holding various body parts. Why then, would she think that I could do this on my own? One job my husband had was wiping my eyes as tears poured down my face.

Yes, it's true: it DOES hurt. Don't let those La Leche League people tell you otherwise. I experienced a number of problems. Infection, engorgement, sore nipples, and clogged ducts. The last is like a cruel joke. So your breasts produce the milk, yet the ducts get clogged so the milk can't come out. This is when it looks and feels like your breast is a bag full of pebbles. And all while this is going on, your breast(s) is very hot because it's being traumatized. And wouldn't you know it? The solution from the lactation consultant is to put a hot compress

on it. Exactly what I was hoping for.

There's also something called the "let down" which I think is when the milk actually starts coming out. It has been described as "pins and needles". To me, it feels similar to when your foot or hand falls asleep and you try to get the blood flowing again. If I'm not getting any sleep, then at least my breasts are.

In regards to the let down, I had what was called an "overactive let down". Yes, there is a name for everything. This is when the milk comes out so fast that I water log the poor boy with my milk because it's shooting out like a runaway fire hose. Seriously. This is not an exaggeration. Milk comes spraying, not dripping, but spraying out of four or five little holes in every direction. It hits him in the head, up the nose, in the eye, in his ear, and douses his clothes which just took me 45 minutes to get one arm through because he likes to squirm. Milk every where, except in his mouth. Now, not only is he still hungry, but he's soaked and so I have to change him again.

When he does actually try to drink from the fire hose, he fiercely gags and coughs because he can't swallow fast enough. Then he pulls away from the breast to once again get sprayed in the eye. It's a total bummer being a newborn.

There have been many, many times in the middle of the night when he has screamed in hunger but can't latch on because I'm too full of milk. That's when I sit on the bed, rock my crying baby as I watch my breast shoot milk across the room hitting the sleeping dogs beside the bed. Again, not an exaggeration.

Of course, breastfeeding can not escape the many gadgets out there which claim to help make it more "special". My favorite of all gadgets: My Breast Friend.

First of all, the name is enough to make me hide the product far away in the closet. Admittedly, it was helpful. It's basically a very firm pillow which wraps high around your waist and you secure it with a buckle. You then lie your baby on this pillow so you don't have to hold him/her during the whole feeding. This saves you from shoulder and neck aches, and in my case very sore wrists. (Something else they didn't warn me about: some new mothers actually suffer from carpal tunnel because of all the new stresses.)

Anyway, what makes me laugh about this product is that it has been renamed by my husband as the "cigarette tray". A far better name than My Breast Friend, in my opinion. Imagine if you will, it's 3am, I've had no sleep, I've given up on wearing bras, or clothing for that matter. (I just can't seem to keep anything clean.) But I have this disk buckled around my waist. It sticks out about 12 inches in the front so it's very convenient for holding a plate of food if you're really in a jam. Also try to imagine getting through doorways. It's like a very large bumper for fragile people. Reaching down to get anything below waist level is also forgotten. So, in my topless and sleepless state, I would just roam around the house saying "Cigarettes. Candy. Gum."

This is what you do to keep humor in the house. What really gets me is this: I roam around the house looking and smelling like road kill because I haven't showered in days, I'm strapped down with my cigarette tray knocking anything down that gets in it's way, the recently emptied boob is sagging and flopping around while the engorged boob (the bumpy, lumpy one) leaves a milk trail on our wooden floors. Oh, I forgot to mention that one of my dogs follow me around the house because she thinks this milk on the floor is snack time. The sight is frightening. Not the woman I thought I would become. Yet my hubby will still look at me and tell me that I'm beautiful. I mean really. What in god's name has he been smoking?

Despite it all, I love breastfeeding. I really do. And I know that I'm very lucky to be able to do it. I know there are some women who don't produce enough milk, or don't have jobs where they are allowed to continue breast feeding. And there are some women who barely escaped the first 6 weeks still intact. So, I count myself to be one of the lucky ones. And I don't judge those who don't. It is incredibly hard to learn and I felt it was more painful and difficult than giving birth to Kien. Sounds crazy, but it's true. There are a lot of different thoughts on the whole issue, but I say, "To each their own!" I've heard so many crazy stories about the trials of breastfeeding that there is absolutely no room for judgement. I honestly feel like it's a secret society where the real information is hidden, otherwise women would be too scared to try it. At long last, I'm at a place where I feel the great privilege to be able to provide him with everything he needs to grow. The bonus is that I burn so many calories breastfeeding that I get to eat as much as I want! But it's not the least bit a one-way street. Even now, since we've mastered the art, we still have to work together to do it right. It's one of the most special times of the day, every day. And it is during these times when I see the grace.