What I Want You to Know is a series of reader submissions. It is an attempt to allow people to tell their personal stories, in the hopes of bringing greater compassion to the unique issues each of us face. If you would like to submit a story to this series, click here. Today’s post is by Abbie Rumbach, who blogs at The Kids Made Me Fat.
I was never very good at pregnancy. Sure, I guess it all turned out all right. The pregnancies always achieved the desired results – a baby. But, I never really felt at home housing a child. My own mother claims that she always loved being pregnant – that she never felt better. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah old woman – time and quite possibly the hell I put you through in my adolescence has crippled your mind. Pregnancy sucks. Especially the second and third time around when you have other children who depend on you to actively participate in life rather than mold your body into the couch and take up permanent residence there for 9 months. They expect you to feed them, bathe them & all of that other mommy bs. Okay, put down the phone – no need to call Child Protective Services – I’m KIDDING. Kind of. I have, however, always been good at breastfeeding. I can’t say that its always come easy but I’ve always felt proud that I breastfed the girls for over a year. I firmly believed that breast milk was the only suitable nutrition for my children and I likened formula to pet food. I thought women who complained of supply problems, latching problems or any other sort of breastfeeding hurdle were simply not committed to the cause. Of course, publicly, I would never say these things. In the many titillating (pun intended) conversations I’ve had with friends regarding feeding their young, I’ve always recited a politically correct mantra that went something like, “You just have to do what works for you. Every mother and baby is different.” Really I wanted to call them out as lazy or a selfish-quitter. I could not fathom feeding my baby out of a can when I had the perfect food provided for him. Then I had Jack. 
Jack is my third child and my first son. While pregnant with Jack, I was anxious about adjusting our lives to accommodate a third child. I worried about how the girls would handle a new baby. I worried about finances and readying the nursery. Pretty common concerns of an expecting mother. I never worried about breastfeeding. Why would I? It was never a question that I would breastfeed my third as I had the previous two.
When Jack was born he latched on soon after birth and we were in baby-mommy bonding bliss. He was a great eater. My milk came in quickly and all was well in Boobville. Then it all fell apart. When Jack was about 2 or 3 weeks old, he started screeching in pain a few minutes after he began to eat. He would go red in the face and hold his breath. His cries were heartbreaking, and I had no idea what was wrong with him. He would cry quite awhile and when I was finally able to calm him, he would refuse to breastfeed. No matter how many times I offered, he wouldn’t latch on. My husband finally convinced me to pump and give him a bottle. He took it with no problem and I made plans to take Jack to the doctor to find out what was wrong. In the interim, Jack would either refuse to latch on or scream a few minutes into feeding and would have to be settled down and then fed with a bottle. I pumped in an effort to keep up my milk supply but I could tell it was dwindling as I never produced much milk for a pump. Jack was diagnosed with heartburn and put on an antacid. But now, I had a big breastfeeding problem as Jack would still cry every time he was put to the breast. He had gotten used to a bottle, and to my dismay, preferred the faster flow of a plastic nipple to me, his own mother. Yes, I was taking it quite personally. I decided, however, to stay the course and keep at it. I told myself that he would eventually come around. I tried for weeks to breastfeed with the same results – tears. Lots from him and a few, or course, from me. We were both miserable. Instead of enjoying my new baby, I was frustrated and stressed. He was too. So, I finally admitted defeat and slowly started giving him the bottle. I continued to pump but eventually my supply ran out and Jack became exclusively formula-fed. I, a total breast-feeding snob, had been humbled. All of the “lazy, quitters” needed to move on over and make room for company, after of course, I extend to you my apologies. I was sad. I felt like a failure. I felt like I had been forced to give up my baby too soon. I wasn’t even sure if I’d be able to bond with the baby if he was bottle-fed. However, my sadness faded and revealed that both Jack and I were much happier. Feedings were now enjoyable and the entire family seemed more at peace. I still wish things had turned out differently but in the end it really didn’t matter. My son was happy, and I learned a good Mommy lesson. You can’t always parent every child the same way, and you can’t always do for one what you did for the other, but, of course, it doesn’t mean you love them any less.
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