It's easy, right? Just stick your nipple in their hungry little mouth and away you go.
HA! Don't be fooled by the paintings of the Madonna serenely feeding the baby Jesus. Or that bloody Aptamil advert with the perfect bloody mother feeding her perfect bloody baby. That is not what it's like my friends, not at all.
In reality there is wriggling, clamping, spraying, sicking up and frustrated tears - from mum and baby. Baby B was very early nicknamed the truffle pig because of all the grunting and snuffling. It really can be like feeding a wild animal. Even now that we've got it sorted at six months he likes to feed with his fingers up my nose. They never show you that in the media!
The very first feed was magical but it soon turned out to be trickier than I'd imagined. I come from a family of proud breastfeeders, I thought I'd be fine, and in my desperation to get home I left hospital after 24 hours with no clue what I was doing and having had no one check our latch. 24 hours after that my nipples were shredded from B's shallow latch and frantic attempts to get my milk going. He was still drowsy from the drugs of the birth and kept falling asleep on the job. It was all going wrong! Our first visit to the midwife confirmed my worries - he'd lost 13% and we were readmitted.
My heart broke. I felt like I'd failed him already and just as we were getting settled at home we were torn away from Daddy again.
The hospital were desperate to give him formula. I really didn't want to but they weren't going to take no for an answer. I was given a hard-core pump and a set amount of milk per feed, and had top up what I had expressed with formula. The first pump resulted in a tiny amount, then B gobbled down a little bottle of formula as if he was starving. I felt so guilty. That night I felt so alone and so upset. I was in a tiny private room, no one came to help me, I didn't know what I was doing and it felt like the end of the world.
So I did what we all now do in times of confusion - I got my iPhone out. I'd recently joined a Facebook group called Bristol Breastfeeding Mummies and I posted my story. Within minutes the replies started coming in. Even though I felt convinced my breastfeeding journey was over before it had started, these kind, wise ladies reassured me I would be ok. They shared their own stories, their good advice and their words of encouragement. Being breastfeeding mummies they were up all night, so as I sat in my tiny room, with the pump whirring and my tiny baby finally snoring next to me, it was like having loads of really really nice new friends. It was the solidarity of motherhood in action and it kept me going.
Because there was no one available to check us over, we had to stay 2 nights but after 24 hours my milk had come in and I could pump enough to ditch the formula. I was bottle feeding expressed milk but at least he was fed and happy. When his weight gain was deemed enough for us to be discharged I was over the moon. Off we went for the second time, this time with me looking as if I’d had a boob-job!
But when I got home I still didn't know how to breastfeed. His tiny mouth just didn't seem to open wide enough, especially with my humungous engorged boobs. I kept trying, despite the painful cracks, but it was tough going, especially during the epic cluster feeds, and I still expressed a few feeds a day.
For the next six weeks I had to take paracetamol and ibuprofen every 4 hours and the pain still often made me cry. The water in the shower was agony and I couldn't even wrap a towel around my boobs. We got treated for thrush, twice, and the HV spotted a posterior tongue tie. He had it snipped but it made it worse then was the same. We forked out for cranial osteopathy which made no difference.
Luckily my husband was amazing through all this. He loved giving B bottles but knew how much it meant to me to get breastfeeding sorted. I think that I felt that the c-section was somehow a failure of the birth and I was not going to fail at this too. He kept me supplied with painkillers and cake and I looked for help everywhere I could. The amazing ladies of Facebook dished out more helpful advice and pointed me in the direction of some really useful Youtube videos showing deep latch technique. I went to my local Children’s Centre breastfeeding group which was also very supportive and it helped to see what breastfeeding really looks like. I also paid for a lactation consultant to come to my house which was great because she could show me how to get comfy and positioned correctly on my own sofa.
Over the weeks it got better and better. Baby B also has reflux which made him very squirmy, but as that got under control and he got bigger it was much easier to get and keep a decent latch. Skin to skin always calmed us both if we were getting frustrated. Slowly but surely, together, we figured it out.
Once we were feeling more confident we started feeding out and about. Getting a boob out in your local, sober, is a strange experience! The one-up-one-down top combo means hardly anything shows and I soon stopped caring. It gave us much more freedom to go out, which made everything much more fun. Feeding a hungry baby on demand meant we fed in the pub, the park, the car, the woods, the beach, cafes, shops, National Trust properties, while answering the door to the Amazon delivery man, any time, any where he decided he was hungry. I’ve never experienced any negative reactions, in fact lots of old ladies have stopped to congratulate us and other mums give an understanding grin. I even felt confident enough to post an Instagram picture of us feeding on Christmas Eve with the hashatg #normalisebreastfeeding. It’s so important that it becomes seen as the norm, something possible, even enjoyable, and something we can talk openly about.
So over the last 6 months I have gone from a snivelling mess to a confident lactivist. That’s not to say I would ever judge another mum for not breastfeeding. I totally get that some mums can’t and that it’s not for everyone. I wouldn’t have been able to stick it out like I did if I had an older child as well. But I’m eternally grateful that I was able to and feel blessed that I am able to do this wonderful thing for my baby. Obviously it’s not all bliss. I’m sick of waking up in a puddle because my pads have got dislodged, of bedcovers that smell of stale milk, of ugly bras, of wonky boobs, of being used as a chew toy during teething. And it’s hard that no one can help me feed or comfort B when all he wants is milk at 1 am. And 3 am. And 5 am. But when he gives me a milky, joyful grin mid-feed, or when he’s finished and he puts his head on my boob and cuddles up looking as peaceful and content as it’s possible to be I feel blessed to be able to feed him. When he gets weighed and has packed it on and I think about how it’s my body making his body grow I feel amazed. When we’re out or it’s the middle of the night and I can stop him crying without really having to do much I feel relieved. As he gets more and more active I feel grateful for the way feeding allows us to be still and quiet and close - our uber cuddle! When we reached 6 months I bought myself a keyring token because I felt so proud to be in the 1% of UK mums exclusively breastfeeding for that long. It’s been a rocky road but an incredible journey that I’m glad I’m taking. I don’t know how long it will last but I’m in no rush for it to end.
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