I desperately wanted to be the new mom you see in the parenting magazines: feeding on a schedule, napping when the baby naps, playing the classical music, and taking a shower daily. A combination of three words put an end to that dream for me: real live baby.
Allow me to paint for you the external factors that were going on as well during this joyous, life-changing event. Six days after the birth of that bundle of joy, I started back to school for my Master's Degree. Two weeks after the birth of that angel sent from heaven, my husband went back to work on midnights. Four weeks after the birth of that swaddled package of love, I went back to work.
With a husband who worked midnights, and an employer who allowed me to bring my baby to work, I was with that sweet infant gift all day and night. I packed him around in a Snuggli when I had to go to the copier machine. I changed his diapers in my office and prayed that he would sleep through hour-long conference calls. When he was irritable, I dosed him up with Mylicon and even took some sucks on the dropper for my own self. When people would pass by my office door, I would say "Hey, do you care to watch him while I run to the restroom?" Some sucker would always fall for it. It bought me a good 10-15 minutes in the bathroom to evaluate my haggard self, press the wrinkles out of my shirt, and scrape the dried puke off of my pant leg. I returned, somewhat rejuvenated, and the co-worker would tell me how wonderful he was and how she could "just take that precious baby home with her". But before I could get the legalese of that contract figured out, she had vanished.
Now add even more mommy/baby time: nursing.
Nursing is not good for an exhausted baby or mother. Don't let them lie to you. When the hospital found out that I was going to be a breastfeeding mom, they seemed overjoyed. They brought pamphlets and samples of nipple cream, showered me with praise and sent in their lactation consultant. She stood at my bedside, throwing breastfeeding terms at me like Colostrum, and Latch, and Letdown. One week of muddling through the nursing propaganda, I figured out what the real letdown was: nursing hurts families and nursing hurts your boobs.
My tiny bit of sunshine wanted nothing to do with this nursing business. Each attempt was nothing short of tears and struggle. I think the baby cried a little too. There were times that I would look down at him and I swear he was looking into my eyes as if to say "Why are you doing this to me? To us?"
One evening, the lactation nurse called our home to ask about my progress. She asked about the number of wet diapers the baby had that day. I responded with "4 or 5?" and she retorted "Oh no. He should have had 8-10 by now". I completely lost it. I handed the phone to my husband and started to cry. A really hard-I haven't slept in days, my baby is starving, I suck at nursing-cry. My husband took the phone, told her never to call our house again, and sent me upstairs to rest. He cracked open a can of formula. The breastfeeding term for that, my friends, is Weaning.
Allow me to paint for you the external factors that were going on as well during this joyous, life-changing event. Six days after the birth of that bundle of joy, I started back to school for my Master's Degree. Two weeks after the birth of that angel sent from heaven, my husband went back to work on midnights. Four weeks after the birth of that swaddled package of love, I went back to work.
With a husband who worked midnights, and an employer who allowed me to bring my baby to work, I was with that sweet infant gift all day and night. I packed him around in a Snuggli when I had to go to the copier machine. I changed his diapers in my office and prayed that he would sleep through hour-long conference calls. When he was irritable, I dosed him up with Mylicon and even took some sucks on the dropper for my own self. When people would pass by my office door, I would say "Hey, do you care to watch him while I run to the restroom?" Some sucker would always fall for it. It bought me a good 10-15 minutes in the bathroom to evaluate my haggard self, press the wrinkles out of my shirt, and scrape the dried puke off of my pant leg. I returned, somewhat rejuvenated, and the co-worker would tell me how wonderful he was and how she could "just take that precious baby home with her". But before I could get the legalese of that contract figured out, she had vanished.
Now add even more mommy/baby time: nursing.
Nursing is not good for an exhausted baby or mother. Don't let them lie to you. When the hospital found out that I was going to be a breastfeeding mom, they seemed overjoyed. They brought pamphlets and samples of nipple cream, showered me with praise and sent in their lactation consultant. She stood at my bedside, throwing breastfeeding terms at me like Colostrum, and Latch, and Letdown. One week of muddling through the nursing propaganda, I figured out what the real letdown was: nursing hurts families and nursing hurts your boobs.
My tiny bit of sunshine wanted nothing to do with this nursing business. Each attempt was nothing short of tears and struggle. I think the baby cried a little too. There were times that I would look down at him and I swear he was looking into my eyes as if to say "Why are you doing this to me? To us?"
One evening, the lactation nurse called our home to ask about my progress. She asked about the number of wet diapers the baby had that day. I responded with "4 or 5?" and she retorted "Oh no. He should have had 8-10 by now". I completely lost it. I handed the phone to my husband and started to cry. A really hard-I haven't slept in days, my baby is starving, I suck at nursing-cry. My husband took the phone, told her never to call our house again, and sent me upstairs to rest. He cracked open a can of formula. The breastfeeding term for that, my friends, is Weaning.
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