The Formula To Andy's Success!

If you buy your baby formula, make
sure it comes in some sort of
container.

Andy had formula as an infant. There, I've admitted it. Cast your stones as you feel necessary. Just try not to aim for my face; I am nothing without my looks.

I tried to breast feed, I really did. I think I lasted about four weeks and even that was with heavy formula supplementation. Anyway, when I finally gave up and went strictly to formula, it was both the best and worst feeling in the world. Best, because I was relieved to just be done with what for me, had been an awful and horrifying experience. Worst, because I felt like I had failed my child and that DCFS was going to burst through my front door at any moment, declare me unfit to raise a child, throw Andy into a pillowcase, and hustle him out into their waiting van.

After Andy was born, and after the birthing room and I had both been sufficiently hosed down, the nurses wheeled me into a recovery room where they neglected to ask if I wanted a sandwich (I so did) and but did remember to ask if I wanted to try nursing right away. My first thought was, "Now? Really? Shouldn't you be giving me a list of the deli meats and cheeses you have available?" I could barely see straight from the pain meds and was still shaken from having survived the most painful and surreal fourteen hours of my life, but instead of communicating these thoughts to the nurse, I simply nodded and held out my arms for my son. Even despite my sorry state, holding Andy definitely ranked as the most wonderful feeling in the world. I would be content to hold him for the rest of my life, through all of his growth spurts and all of my sandwiches, well into the years when my bones began to disintegrate from advanced osteoporosis and my head was outfitted with comically enormous glaucoma glasses and freakishly white dentures.

As great as it was to cradle my newborn, neither of us seemed very interested in the task at hand. He just wasn't craving what I had to offer. He did not latch on, even after the nurse's suggestion of basically taking Andy's skull and shoving it where it needed to go, and he seemed a little upset that we couldn't just cuddle. Eventually, the nurse said that we could try again in a couple hours, and Andy and I fell asleep for a little bit, skin to skin. Chris had his own little cot off to the side. Just for the record, nobody offered him a sandwich, either.

By early morning, I was revved up and ready to get the breast feeding show on the road. I had the nurses come in and show me all the different positions (football, cross-cradle, downward dog). They maneuvered Andy's head as if playing with a ragdoll and pushed his face onto my boob. They gave me pointers, tips, and encouragement. They distracted my deep concentration with silly rhymes: "Your little baby, he's a newbie. / Don't worry, soon he'll like your boobie!" They assured me that baby's lack of latching was normal. And then they sent in the lactation expert.

By this time, no less than fifteen people had seen my bare bosom in the last twenty-four hours. I'm pretty sure at least twelve of them actually worked at the hospital.

The lactation expert (or "breast coach" as Chris non-ironically referred to her) had definitely been captain of the cheerleading team back in high school. She was upbeat and peppy, and I immediately disliked her the second that she walked into the room. She gave me the talk on why breast was best, went through all the positions again, rearranged Andy, rearranged me, and then came up with the bright idea to dribble a little sugar water on my nipples to get Andy interested.

Yes, the breast coach dribbled sugar water on my nipples. At some point, I had to draw the line on where my dignity was being compromised, and this was it. I felt like I was on the strangest first date of my life, and all I wanted to do was put my shirt back on and ask her to please drive me home.

It didn't even help. Andy wasn't going for the sugary nips, and at some point, the nurse offered us a tiny bottle of formula, which Andy drank with no problem.

We kept trying with the nursing, throughout the rest of the day and into the night. Finally, the next morning, we were on our way home, but only after the breast coach gave me an awkward hug, a hospital-grade pump, a dozen booklets on the pros of breastfeeding, and the advice that breastfeeding is not for everyone, and, at the end of the day, the choice of giving my child prime boobie nutrition or abusing him with manufactured formula that would most likely make him sick, dumb, and unlucky in love was totally up to me. I could make the choice- and also live with it.

At home, I promptly fell asleep for three hours while Chris spent alone time with Andy, holding him, taking pictures of him, and wondering if he was ever going to wake up from his formula induced slumber, as we'd given him another tiny little bottle before getting in the car. Baby was out like he'd just had Thanksgiving dinner and wine.

After resting, I tried to nurse Andy. Wasn't interested. Tried again after a couple hours, and it was more of the same. It wasn't until two days later that Andy suddenly got the hang of it, and for a whole weekend, I felt like the world's greatest lactator. The only problem was, Andy would or could only drink a little at a time before falling asleep. And then he'd want more forty-five minutes later. I suddenly felt like a machine on demand, but the worst part was the machine's production wasn't keeping up very well. Andy never seemed satisfied, not like he did after Chris would give him a bottle of formula.

There were other obstacles aside from the low production, the being on call, and Andy's lack of satisfaction. There were clogs and bleeding and soreness and pain. I was uncomfortable all day long, and my chest just plain hurt. There were times when I would pump only to see blood-tinged milk filling up in the collection jar, as my junk was raw and no amount of ointment or other remedy seemed to repair the area. More frequent or less frequent nursing didn't seem to help with the clogs, either. After a couple weeks, I still didn't feel like it was coming naturally to me, and I was stressed out beyond belief, cringing with discomfort every time Andy would try to drink. I'll finally say it here. I hated breast feeding. I hated it so much. I did not feel any special bond with my son when he was nursing, and, for me, it was a physical punishment. And, I swear, Andy didn't like it either. I could see it in his face. "Stop dicking around, Ma, and just give me the f-ing bottle."

After four weeks, I gave up. Physically, I felt the best I had since Andy had been born. My boobs healed, and I was able to get more sleep since I wasn't on call and Andy was getting rib-sticking, heavy formula to keep him happy. Emotionally, though, I wasn't doing super great. I worried that maybe I'd given up too soon, that maybe I was putting Andy at a disadvantage from not getting all of the touted benefits of breast milk. I felt guilty over the whole thing. The only thing that helped ease that guilt was the fantastic amount of sleep I was getting, the lack of blood stains in my bra, and the sweet, content temperament of my child.

But, although the guilt was eased, it lingered there until Andy's first birthday, when I threw out that last container of formula and bought his first gallon of whole milk. There. My baby was off formula now. I didn't have to be afraid of the peppy breast coach or the boob police showing up and arresting me as I mixed a bottle of Enfamil.

Now that it's all said and done, I look at Andy's health and development and can't see that he's worse off for having the formula. At sixteen months, he has never had an ear infection or any other illness other than minor colds. He's never had to be on antibiotics, and the only time he's even had to have baby aspirin was once after a vaccine. He's healthy and hearty. Developmentally, he's always been on or ahead of the curve. He's smart; Chris and I like to call him the problem solver because that's what he does- he solves problems. Also, as I've stated, he's pretty damn cute.

Is there a part of me that wonders if Andy had had more breast milk, could he have been even healthier, smarter, and (somehow) cuter? Well, maybe a small part. But then Andy would have been a Super Baby, and if he would have been that much more amazing, then he might have made all of the other babies at day care feel really down about themselves. Either way, it's all worked out, and I've mostly stopped feeling bad about the whole thing.

Will I try to breast feed again at some point in the future? Surprisingly, the answer is yes. I think I will give it another try, just to see if things go differently. But only if I have another baby. Otherwise, that would just be weird.