29.1666666 Days - An Exclusive Pumping Story - Lauren's Breastfeeding Journey

     I met Lauren six weeks postpartum and six weeks into her very emotional roller coaster ride of a breastfeeding experience. She saw many doctors and a few other IBCLC's before arriving at my doorstep. Under the guidance of other professionals, she had already done many of the things I would have suggested. So at six weeks in, it was time to let go. I was able to be the final person to validate the need to let go of the latch and focus on pumping if that was how Lauren wanted to move forward. This is another story of when a baby has trouble latching and removing milk from the breast. Sometimes the baby just never catches on. Some women have very high expectations of themselves not realizing that latch issues are beyond their control. Sometimes its the baby and sometimes we never find out why. While giving the baby time to build breastfeeding skills, mother needs to pump to maintain her supply, and the baby needs to eat which is typically done by a bottle (yes a bottle). Asking a mother and baby to breastfeed then bottle feed and pump 8x a day for weeks on end is just not sustainable. Lactation professionals call this the "triple feed" and this is a very short term plan in my opinion. Lauren had been doing this for six weeks and it was not working so it was time to let go of the latch and move on. Lauren continued to pump and provide milk to her daughter for over a year. Go Lauren! I'm so glad you arrived at my doorstep so I could guide you through the rest of your journey and get to know your beautiful family and watch your daughter grow! This is Lauren's breastfeeding journey....

"I’ve always been the kind of person that things just seem to work out for. I’m not sure whether it’s luck, hustle, my type-A personality or a combination of all three, but when I want something badly enough, I’ll find a way to make it happen.

That’s the way I approached motherhood. I went off the pill and less than three months later was pregnant. I secretly always wanted a daughter and was excited – albeit not surprised – when I learned I was expecting a girl.

I wanted an easy, uncomplicated labor, and I delivered my daughter less than eight hours after checking in the hospital at 1 cm dilated, pushing for only 19 minutes. I even accurately guessed her birth weight, down to the ounce.

I approached breastfeeding the same way. I was going to exclusively breastfeed for a year and that was that. I sought advice from friends who had children, went to a class taught by an IBCLC, ordered a top-of-the-line pump and bought two boppies that I outfitted with custom, monogrammed boppy covers off Etsy.

     It was that simple – or so I thought, up until a moment I will never forget. It’s one of those memories that I can close my eyes and bring to mind every detail: What my husband was wearing, the view from our hospital room, even the color bow I had placed jauntily on my daughter’s teeny-tiny head. It was about 24 hours after I delivered, and my nipples were raw, cracked and sore. My daughter kept latching but after a few seconds would pop off or fall asleep. “This isn’t going well,” my well-meaning-but-lacking-a-filter husband lamented after the third or fourth time I attempted to get her to latch and nurse. Tears welled up in my eyes. Breastfeeding is the most natural thing in the world, I thought to myself. What is wrong with me, my breasts and my perfect daughter that we can’t seem to find a groove?

     Leaving the hospital, I chalked it up to relative inexperience and tried to ignore the feelings of self-doubt. When we got home, I dug up the card from the lactation consultant whose class we went to at Babies R Us. It was a Wednesday, and she was available to come to our house on Saturday. I confirmed with her while thinking that by the time the appointment rolled around, her services won’t be needed. But our insurance covered it, so we might as well take advantage of it.

The next few days were some of the darkest I could ever remember. I was exhausted, frustrated, sore and bitter. Whenever someone brought up the f word – formula – I snapped at them. I equated formula to another f word that isn’t in my vocabulary: failure. I remember taking my time getting ready for my daughter’s first pediatrician appointment, which was the day before the initial IBCLC visit. I put on makeup. Styled my hair. I refused to let the doctor see that I was drowning. We joked with him as he examined her. I complimented the kid-friendly decor in the office. I gazed adoringly at the child who had made me a mother just five days earlier. “Six pounds, eight ounces,” he announced grimly. She had lost almost 15 percent of her birth weight. Translation: I was failing.

     The pediatrician saw my face fall and quickly tried to reassure me. This is a common issue he runs in to with new moms, he said, not unkindly, adding that if my goal was to breastfeed, this will take work. Formula is always an option, he continued, joking that there are probably some lactation consultants out there who would skewer him with pitchforks if they heard him say that.

I gave a half-hearted smile while trying to blink back tears. “What do we need to do?”

Breastfeed her for 10 minutes each side. Give her a bottle of pumped milk. Give her a bottle of formula. Pump. Rinse and repeat. Come back tomorrow to see if the situation had reversed itself.

Those 24 hours were exhausting. I had run Broad Street twice, gotten certified as a fitness instructor (while pregnant!), conquered two-a-days in high school, and yet this was the most challenging experience I had ever been through.

     At 5 a.m. the next day, hours before our pediatrician appointment, which was to be followed by the lactation consultant visit, I laid the baby on my outstretched legs and cried, convinced she was going to starve to death. You see, I had broken my own rule and given her a paci the day we came home from the hospital. After furiously Googling, I came to the conclusion that she had nipple confusion and she would never drink from a nipple – human or artificial. A few hours later, we were standing in line at the pediatrician’s office. While the day before I was perfectly coiffed, today I was in spitup-stained sweatpants, an old hoodie, straggly hair and Uggs. My appearance reflected my mentality: Defeated.

     While waiting to check in, another mom looked at me, then my newborn, then back at me.

“No one ever says this, but the first month is hell,” she said, her voice dripping with sympathy.

I nodded, gave a weak smile and locked eyes with my equally exhausted husband. The appointment gave us hope. She had gained almost 7 ounces overnight. The doctor we saw (a different one) was cautiously optimistic and gave us clearance to drop the formula bottle, but she still had to nurse for 10 minutes each side and drink a bottle of pumped milk. I had to pump at least eight times a day to make sure my milk came in and to provide milk for the next bottle. And we needed to come back from another weight check a few days later.

     We saw the lactation consultant that afternoon. She diagnosed our daughter with a weak suck, but shrugged when I asked what I could do to fix it. “It’ll correct itself,” she announced with confidence.

Suffice it to say that it never did. The next six weeks were a blur of weight checks at the pediatrician, appointments with more lactation consultants, a trip to a pediatric speech therapist on the advice of an LC and fights with my husband over my desire to breastfeed. I refused to accept defeat and tried everything: nipple shields, every possible hold, soliciting advice on online forums and counting wet/dirty diapers. She seemed to get a little better at nursing because I timed how long she would stay latched, but would still wolf down the bottles of pumped milk. I was at a loss.

     At her six-week appointment, I asked the doctor if we could drop two bottles of pumped milk a day to see if it made a difference. She gave me permission with the caveat that I come back in one week for yet another weight check. The next week after dropping just two bottles of pumped milk per day (she was still getting six bottles plus breastfeeding eight times a day), I held my breath while the doctor calibrated the scale at the umpteenth weight check. She had gained less than three ounces. He peered at me through his glasses, and told me I had to add back the bottles of pumped milk a day. Pumped milk is the same as milk the baby gets through the breast, he said offhand. Up until that point, I had been wholly against exclusively pumping, an option that my mom and husband kept pressuring me to resort to. It required my admitting defeat. I needed another opinion. Someone on a local Facebook page had recommended another ICBLC, so I sent her an email. She replied quickly but said she was out of town. Try Dana Ehman at Motherborn, she suggested. I made an appointment with Dana, and a few days later steeled myself as I walked into her office. I dressed my daughter in a cream-colored jumpsuit with tiny red hearts on it. She and I were both wearing our hearts on our sleeves – her literally, and me figuratively. I instantly felt at ease with Dana and poured my heart out to her. I relayed the whole saga as I whipped out my breast, slapped on the nipple shield and wrapped her office’s My Breast Friend around my waist. I nursed my daughter as Dana watched intently. After the weighted feed, which reflected the nursing struggles we had experienced from the beginning, Dana looked at me and gave me a much-needed dose of reality. “Why don’t you just exclusively pump? You have the milk supply, and that’s usually half the battle. I can see you’re killing yourself, so I’ll give you a modified schedule.” I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Having Dana endorse exclusively pump made the concept sound so rational. Previously, I saw it as a sign of defeat. But here was an experienced, recommended lactation consultant who said it was not only OK, but my best option! That was the last time I breastfed my daughter. From that point on, until she was about 13 months, I exclusively pumped.

     I probably spent close to 700 hours pumping that first year. I pumped in the car. At my in-law’s house. At a Philadelphia Union game. On the Amtrak. At the airport. In hotels. At the gym. In a movie theatre. Dana gave me the confidence to pump and the validation that what I was doing was still breastfeeding. I’d be remiss if I said I didn’t feel some semblance of guilt. I grieved over the nursing relationship I desperately wanted. I sought help from a wonderful therapist at the Postpartum Stress Center who helped me mollify the disappointment I felt, and my OB put me on medication.

     It was a journey that I never saw myself undertaking, and yet, when I finally boxed up my pumping accessories – two pumps, six sets of tubes, countless bottles and corresponding nipples, supplements – I was surprised at how many emotions I experienced simultaneously: peace, sadness, pride, nostalgia, satisfaction, fulfillment. My husband and I – at odds initially over this journey – high-fived each other as we congratulated ourselves on providing our daughter with breastmilk for well over a year.

     Breastfeeding did work out for me. Initially I was too narrow-minded to realize that breastfeeding doesn’t just mean baby to boob. It means nourishment and doing what’s best for your child. It means adjusting course when the road gets tough. It means supplementing with formula. It means donating milk to another mama who I met at Mother’s Morning Out. It means whatever the hell you want it to mean. The best mothers are happy mothers. My advice to soon-to-be- and new moms is to do what’s best for you, your body and your child."

MotherBorn

When a Child is Born, a Mother is Born