Choices

Before I start, let me say that I am suffering a bit of stage fright here. Kind of like when I was 13, dancing and singing to Wham! All by myself in my bedroom. "Wake me UP (jump) before you go-go (shimmy), I ain't planning on going solo (shaking finger while shuffling back) Wake me UP (jump) before you go-go (shimmy) take me dancing tonight!! (weird shaking twisting move)..." You get the picture. I felt like Madonna, I was cool. Until I saw my mom standing in the door with a laundry basket with a huge grin on her face. Not only that, she had gone and gotten my DAD and he was guffawing. Yes, reeeeeallly funny!! (Luckily they had missed the opening act of Careless Whisper... I had learned some rad moves from MTV...) Once I knew that they had seen my show, it suddenly seemed dumb, and immature.

Now that I know there are some of you out there reading this, I am a bit nervous about writing. Every post I wrote prior seems a little... Weird. I went back and found spelling mistakes. and places where I left out words altogether... ahhh well. I will plunder on. Just let me know when I am getting stupid.

Today's topic is about breastfeeding. (HA!!) Seriously it is. (double HA!) But I am not going to be arguing points, or which is better or which is more accepted. I just have a few things that I want to explain about me and about my feelings. Trust me, I have no grandiose illusions that after reading this blog, breastfeeders and bottle feeders will wipe away tears of understanding, clasp hands and burst out into "I'd like to teach the world to sing". But maybe someone will say, "Huh. That's interesting." Most will probably say "Geez, she is weird." But that's ok. It's my blog and I can ramble if I want to.


The first time (and really the only time) I got into a heated thread on babycenter, it was the infamous "Non-Breastfeeders" thread. I was honestly stunned at how heated and mean the thread became. And I was right in the middle of it. Not because I feel passionately about formula, or passionately against breastfeeding. Just because I was stunned that people were attacking each other over it. I felt that I must defend my choice simply because people were so angrily against what I did. I have learned my lesson more or less.

What really suprises me about myself is how the topic still gets to me. I can't get my head around my feelings, and therefore can't really verbally express in a clear and concise manner WHY I feel the way I do. I can discuss nearly any other topic without difficulty. But say "I think its wrong that you didn't even TRY to breastfeed your poor child." and I turn into a cavewoman. "you mean. go way. i, me. you, you." I might even throw a rock at you. (figuratively speaking, of course.) *wink*

The first person I ever saw breastfeeding her baby was my aunt Cheryl. (I have found out since that my aunt breastfeed, but was always sent to the back room, so i never witnessed it) I was 9 years old, and my uncle had moved home from Houston, Texas with his new pregnant bride. The phone lines were burning up between my mom, her sister, (who would be my uncle's twin sister) and my grandmother. I paid no attention. I was FASCINATED by the new member of our family. She was gorgeous. Tall, pregnant, dark complexion with long black Farrah Fawcett hair. And besides all that, she was closer to my age than anyone else in the family. I followed her around like a shadow. I tried to force my curly locks into wings. I was enamored with her.

Fastforward a million years, and I am pregnant with my first baby. A little girl. From the beginning, I planned on breastfeeding. Which, believe it or not, had I succeeded, I would have been one of the first people I knew that did so. All my friends bottle fed. But I thought it was something I should do. The breast is best literature surrounded me. I look back now and think that no matter what words were coming out of my mouth, I never really committed to breastfeeding. I never bought a nursing bra, or a pump, or storage bags, or nipple cream. Maybe subconsciously I knew it was something I didn't want to do. But I wouldn't admit it.

My doctor induced me on a Friday morning at 4AM. I am very sensitive to any kind of drug. One tylenol PM and I am out for about 10 hours. Back in the Adipex days, half a pill would have me up for nearly 24. Pitocin threw me off a cliff. I was in utter agony. Nine months of watching A Baby Story did not prepare me for the body wrenching contractions that I was experiencing. On TV, pretty women would discuss quantum physics with their significant other until a contraction hit, and then would close their eyes, say "Oh.... That's strong one.... ahhh, ok..." and then continue the discussion where it left off. They would deliver without breaking a sweat, with three pushes, and still have lipstick on. I could not form complete sentences. When I would feel a contraction coming, I would moan tearfully "MARTY!!!!" that was his cue to start rubbing my back and hip with every bit of strength he had in his body, until he felt that he was going to break a bone. When the contraction was over, I would fall into a speechless stupor, terrified of when the next would hit.

To really explain the depths of my agony, I should tell this story. My brother was serving in the Marine Corp in Beaufort, SC. When he found out about my induction he had headed straight for Arkansas after he received clearance. (I went to the Dr on Thursday and he put me in that night. I was a week overdue, with zero dilation, and a firm cervix. They could tell that she was big, and didn't want to wait any longer.) My brother arrived mid morning, and I remember my mom saying "Open your eyes, someone is here to see you." I had not seen my brother in months. When I saw him standing there, I burst into hysterical sobs and began screaming "WHY ARE YOU HERE???" and clutching Marty. I thought they had called him to come because I was dying. That was the only thing that made sense to me, given the agony I was experiencing. In my mind, he had come to say goodbye.

I labored on and on. I had the LUCK of having two new nurses. I begged them to let me walk around. I think they pulled out a nursing manual and tried to decide what to do. They told me no. No walking. Stay in bed. The pain got worse and worse. Towards 4PM, I decided that I didn't care if I died. Marty talked to my Dr. When he came to check on me and told him that the nurses wouldn't let me walk. He was upset and talked to them and I received walking clearance. Forget it. I couldn't walk if my life depended on it. I stopped talking completely. I couldn't have an epidural because I was only dilated to a 3. Marty decided that something had to be done. He headed out to call our Lamaze teacher. We had both fallen in love with her during our classes. She took no shit, was very outspoken, and took care of her little mothers. He got to the elevator and there she was. Sent from God. He told her of our plight and she came right up to my room and kicked out all my family and the nurses and shut the door. She helped me get up, move around and got me to talking. She was there for two hours and when she left, I was dilated to an 8. (She did tell Marty that she had only seen contractions like mine a couple of times. There was no gradual up and down. Mine graphed out in big boxes. Straight up, straight across and straight down.) I never dilated further than an 8 1/2. My blood pressure started dropping at around 9, and Elizabeth's heart rate was all over the place. I ended up with a cesarean. I feel asleep while they were stapling me back up. I was exhausted and don't remember much of anything about that night.

The next morning, the post partum depression was already seeping in. The horrid labor and unexpected surgery had left me lethargic and tired. They brought Elizabeth to me first thing. I had not even really gotten to look at her. The lactation consultant brought her to me and said "Your baby is hungry." She came right around the bed and opened up my gown, tossed Elizabeth under my arm and started manipulating my breasts with her overly manicured hands. I swear her nails were the longest fake nails you can get. I tried to tell her that I could do it and she insisted that there was a right way and a wrong way and no matter what I thought, I had never breastfed before and I didn't know what I was doing. I started crying about halfway through and could not stop. Marty asked her to leave the room and she stomped out. When our nurse came in, he told her that we didn't want the lactation monster back in our room. I was still crying. It wasn't an hour later that my sweet, kind doctor showed up in his sweatshirt and jeans and dirty cowboy boots. One of the nurses had called him and told him of my distress and he came in on his day off and sat with me and talked to me about breastfeeding versus bottlefeeding. I won't go into what he said, because many would not agree and it's not my intent to start a debate. But he sat with us for over an hour. And when he left, he asked my nurse to bring me a bottle so that I could feed my daughter. And I finally got to hold her, and look at her, and feed her. And I began falling in love. And the next time she was hungry, I was asleep. And Marty got to hold her, and look at her, and feed her. And I never looked back, and never regretted that decision.

And when my due date came close with my son, Marty asked, "Are you going to try and breastfeed?" and I said "Actually, no. I don't think I am cut out for it."

I know many will be shaking their heads in disbelief. But I know in my heart that I did the right thing for MY family. It doesn't make Elizabeth or Colby love me any less. It doesn't make me a bad mother. What it all comes down to is making choices that are right for you. Why can't we all see that? Why do we have to attack and bring each other down?

In the choice between tennis shoes and heels, I chose tennis shoes. And I am pretty darn comfortable with that. And your heels are nice, too. Glad we both got our shoes on, because, with any luck, this is going to be a long, long journey with these precious children, and we are going to need them.