My daughter is about to turn one which is bringing forth two milestones. The first is obvious. The second event marks the official end of her consumption of breast milk.
In the beginning, my goal was to provide my child with breast milk if it were at all possible. My initial hope was that I would be able to provide it for her for three months. I had read and been told that the most health benefits are provided to babies from breast milk in the first three months of their lives.
Initially, that seemed daunting as it was not easy for me to breastfeed my daughter. There were weekly blockages, bouts of mastitis, and other disturbing issues that almost thwarted my determination. I fantasized about having my body back to myself and about having my husband do all the middle of the night feedings instead of me at the beginning. And yet, I felt compelled to keep going.
Is it really so much better for a baby to have breast milk than formula? We certainly have been led to believe that. There has been study after study, but that does not convince me of anything. Besides, I know plenty of formula-fed children who are brilliant, healthy, and amazing. And yet…I still felt the need to continue. I would describe my need to breastfeed my daughter as manic, obsessive, and at times, just plain ridiculous.
My child’s pediatrician once said to me that she would benefit from having breast milk for the first year of her life, and I fixated on that advice. How could I deny my child something that would benefit her? Besides, she loved it.
At about 4 months she would approach me and pull down my shirt to tell me she was hungry. It was hysterical, but I feared she would be one of those 12 year olds who still wanted to breastfeed.
I had nothing to fear because the truth is; she tried to wean herself off of me at about 8 months. I was ignorant and did not realize that was what she was doing. Every time I would feed her, she would drink for about 30 seconds, bite me severely, and then release and try to go play. Ironically, it was her pediatrician who explained that she was no longer interested in breastfeeding. Sure enough, at about 10 months, I stopped offering her “me” and she never pulled down my shirt in interest again.
And yet…I felt the need to make sure she still was receiving breast milk until that year milestone. In a way, I guess the timeline seems arbitrary, but it was a goal my pediatrician had unknowingly set for me. So, crazy woman that I am, I pumped for the next few months.
Most of my readers understand how difficult it was for me to get pregnant, so maybe this confession will make sense. There is a huge part of me that does not want to stop pumping. It is the last piece of physical evidence that my body did something it was supposed to. I am sad to let go of that.
I have welled up with tears thinking about the end of this phase of my child’s life and my life, but about a month ago, I started counting down the pumping days I had left. I calculated how much frozen stock was ready and how many days I might have to still pump. I now have enough of a supply to make it to her first birthday, although with the storm coming, the frozen stuff might
have to be consumed a bit early or sent to a friend’s house where a generator will keep it preserved.
One of my friends once told me if I breastfed beyond six months it was no longer about my baby’s needs but my own. I did not understand what she was talking about then, but in this situation, perhaps the breastfeeding stopped being about her when she weaned.
It has been a long year in respect to my daughter's nutrition. The breastfeeding process was not what I had wanted or planned, but I tried, I failed, and I somehow persevered in my own way. Is it possible that I have stumbled upon the epitome of motherhood?
In the beginning, my goal was to provide my child with breast milk if it were at all possible. My initial hope was that I would be able to provide it for her for three months. I had read and been told that the most health benefits are provided to babies from breast milk in the first three months of their lives.
Initially, that seemed daunting as it was not easy for me to breastfeed my daughter. There were weekly blockages, bouts of mastitis, and other disturbing issues that almost thwarted my determination. I fantasized about having my body back to myself and about having my husband do all the middle of the night feedings instead of me at the beginning. And yet, I felt compelled to keep going.
Is it really so much better for a baby to have breast milk than formula? We certainly have been led to believe that. There has been study after study, but that does not convince me of anything. Besides, I know plenty of formula-fed children who are brilliant, healthy, and amazing. And yet…I still felt the need to continue. I would describe my need to breastfeed my daughter as manic, obsessive, and at times, just plain ridiculous.
My child’s pediatrician once said to me that she would benefit from having breast milk for the first year of her life, and I fixated on that advice. How could I deny my child something that would benefit her? Besides, she loved it.
At about 4 months she would approach me and pull down my shirt to tell me she was hungry. It was hysterical, but I feared she would be one of those 12 year olds who still wanted to breastfeed.
I had nothing to fear because the truth is; she tried to wean herself off of me at about 8 months. I was ignorant and did not realize that was what she was doing. Every time I would feed her, she would drink for about 30 seconds, bite me severely, and then release and try to go play. Ironically, it was her pediatrician who explained that she was no longer interested in breastfeeding. Sure enough, at about 10 months, I stopped offering her “me” and she never pulled down my shirt in interest again.
And yet…I felt the need to make sure she still was receiving breast milk until that year milestone. In a way, I guess the timeline seems arbitrary, but it was a goal my pediatrician had unknowingly set for me. So, crazy woman that I am, I pumped for the next few months.
Most of my readers understand how difficult it was for me to get pregnant, so maybe this confession will make sense. There is a huge part of me that does not want to stop pumping. It is the last piece of physical evidence that my body did something it was supposed to. I am sad to let go of that.
I have welled up with tears thinking about the end of this phase of my child’s life and my life, but about a month ago, I started counting down the pumping days I had left. I calculated how much frozen stock was ready and how many days I might have to still pump. I now have enough of a supply to make it to her first birthday, although with the storm coming, the frozen stuff might
have to be consumed a bit early or sent to a friend’s house where a generator will keep it preserved.
One of my friends once told me if I breastfed beyond six months it was no longer about my baby’s needs but my own. I did not understand what she was talking about then, but in this situation, perhaps the breastfeeding stopped being about her when she weaned.
It has been a long year in respect to my daughter's nutrition. The breastfeeding process was not what I had wanted or planned, but I tried, I failed, and I somehow persevered in my own way. Is it possible that I have stumbled upon the epitome of motherhood?