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when you struggle to breastfeed.

April 22, 2015 | C+C Guest Writer

The battles were fierce.  

At least, that's how I felt when I tried to breastfeed my daughter. Each nursing session began with screams and cries no earthly being should be allowed to make. I would offer my breast, and the thrashing would start. While her little hands clawed and pushed one side of my chest, her tiny feet kicked the other. My husband had to restrain those flailing limbs before we could accomplish anything. 

Because she was so ticked off, she wasn't able to latch on by herself. She'd move her head quickly from side to side and make these alarming growling noises, almost like a little puppy trying to attack a toy. We would carry on like this for a while before she would finally start sucking, but only with the help of a nipple shield. And even then, she fought it. 

From day one of her life to eight weeks, this is how breastfeeding went for us.

Feeding her became such a source of anxiety that I completely dreaded it. I hardly ate. I cried a lot. I thought, What am I doing wrong? and This is all my fault. I felt depressed and exhausted. Our baby girl wasn't doing any better. Along with not being able to properly breastfeed, she was upset the majority of the time she was awake. Inconsolable. We tried so many things: acid reflux medicine, Colic Calm, all the techniques they teach you to burp your baby correctly. I developed callouses on my hands from swinging her over and over again in her car seat, which was the only way to make her stop crying, often only temporarily. We thought maybe she was lactose intolerant, so we tried Colief. I remember wondering if all newborns were like this, and if so, why, for the love of all that is good and right in the world, would anyone want to have a second child. We had no idea what we were doing. And all the while, breastfeeding remained this heavy thing, looming over us.

Everything came to a head at the pediatrician's office when we learned that in a whole month, she hadn't added any weight to her tiny seven pound, four ounce body. There were other babies we knew that were heavier at birth than she was at almost two months. I thought, how can this be possible? She usually nursed for so long, sometimes over an hour at a time, how is she not getting enough to eat?  

When you are working so hard to help your baby, news like this is devastating. I would see updates from other new moms on Facebook about how well their babies were gaining weight and how joyous they felt about being a mother, while all I felt was bitterness.  

After another week of trying to nurse her with no improvement, we made the decision to give her formula. She guzzled that first bottle down like she hadn't eaten all day. All the problems we thought she had went away immediately. She calmed right down and started smiling more than screaming. We were so relieved. Unfortunately, once we gave her that bottle, she refused to even attempt breastfeeding anymore. I started pumping and quickly realized that I was hardly making any milk.

So, basically, she was trying to tell us that she was starving this whole time, and we just weren't getting the hint.

In the end, I chose to stop breastfeeding and pumping altogether because it was just too hard. What was supposed to be this wonderful, sweet bonding experience between my baby and I became this burdensome, stress-inducing nightmare.  

For us, formula was a blessing, but it wasn't easy for me to accept that blessing. I blamed myself and felt like a horrible mother because I couldn't give my baby what was best for her. I felt like less of a woman because I couldn't breastfeed. I thought I was ruining my baby because so many books, doctors and websites told me that breastmilk was liquid gold. I desperately wanted someone to tell me that it was okay, that I had made the right decision. 

And people did. They showered me with encouragement and love and support.  

And it didn't help.  

Finally, I realized something. Sometimes, you have to release the burden while it clings tightest.  

Yes, I could have analyzed everything I did to find out where I went wrong. Yes, there are tactics I didn't try: pills I could have taken to increase my milk supply, tubes I could have attached between my breasts and bottles to encourage her to nurse. I could have pumped every two hours in hopes of making more milk. But what I really needed was to allow myself to accept the grace that God and others were already giving me. Because once I let myself accept this grace, I felt the freedom to make a decision.

And my decision was to stop. To stop all the striving and straining. To stop the guilt. To stop the battle.  

Peace finally came when I took all of my loose ends and just dropped them without having tied them together. Peace came, and along with it, the ability to see the truth: I love my daughter. I am not a horrible mother. My husband and I made a wise, beneficial choice for our family. I can rejoice in feeding my baby formula, knowing she is getting the nourishment she needs.  

To my delight, we now have a smiling, gurgling, blessedly chunky baby who is incredibly joyful and, most importantly, healthy.  

For a while there, I fought against receiving the one thing we all desperately need in this whole raising-a-tiny-human thing. But I am slowly learning to take hold of it with these feeble fingers of mine.

There is grace. 

Even when it doesn't look at all like what you thought it would look like. When you choose to lean on it and on the One who gives it, instead of on your own strength, you have not lost anything.

You have not failed.  

You may not have any strength left to fight for yourself, but that's right where you should be. It is there where you will find, if you let yourself, that you have been given the victory you were searching for all along.   


Guest post written by Sara Smith. Sara is in constant need of grace as she stumbles through the wonderful yet frazzling adventure of being a mom to her delightfully feisty baby girl.  She's married to an adventurous officer of the law, loves Jesus and can't say no to sugar.  She blogs at Feathers & Roots.

Photo by N'tima Preusser. 

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In New Mom Tags breastfeeding, formula
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I leaned towards the window to get a better look at a plaid pair of ankle pants. I studied the pattern and wondered if they’d look cute with an Irish cable-knit fishermen’s sweater Jesse gave me for Christmas years ago. I didn’t get a chance to wear it that often when we were in the DC area, and the weather never got as cold as it does in the Midwest. I shook my foot rapidly while Cara read, and I stared at those ankle pants. I should get rid of that sweater, I thought. After all, minimalist wardrobes are all the rage: only keep what you love. If you haven’t worn it in several years, toss it.
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I hadn’t worn that sweater in years, this is true, but thinking about throwing it out made me sad. I could remember the morning Jesse gave it to me. We were living in South Bend, and he was a graduate student at the University of Notre Dame.  He told me the story behind the sweater—that each pattern is unique to the fisherman so that if he drowns at sea, he can be identified. I thought about a wife sitting by a fire, knitting a sweater for her husband, a pattern designed for him so if she stands next to his lifeless body one day, she can point out the cable and twist stitches down the center, the rib stitch she decided on at the last moment for the sleeves. “This is mine,” she would say, running her fingers over the yarn that was once a pile on her kitchen floor while her husband sat nearby humming “The Night Visiting Song.”
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Maybe I’d wear that sweater again someday. It would look cute with those ankle pants. I began to imagine reading my Erasmus paper in that outfit at a writing conference, perhaps the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I would look fantastic, and I would express something about The Praise of Folly that nobody had thought of before.
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// From "Lessons in Folly (an excerpt from Twirl)" by @calliefeyen, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

Currently reading:

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I leaned towards the window to get a better look at a plaid pair of ankle pants. I studied the pattern and wondered if they’d look cute with an Irish cable-knit fishermen’s sweater Jesse gave me for Christmas years ago. I didn’t get a chance to wear it that often when we were in the DC area, and the weather never got as cold as it does in the Midwest. I shook my foot rapidly while Cara read, and I stared at those ankle pants. I should get rid of that sweater, I thought. After all, minimalist wardrobes are all the rage: only keep what you love. If you haven’t worn it in several years, toss it.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I hadn’t worn that sweater in years, this is true, but thinking about throwing it out made me sad. I could remember the morning Jesse gave it to me. We were living in South Bend, and he was a graduate student at the University of Notre Dame.  He told me the story behind the sweater—that each pattern is unique to the fisherman so that if he drowns at sea, he can be identified. I thought about a wife sitting by a fire, knitting a sweater for her husband, a pattern designed for him so if she stands next to his lifeless body one day, she can point out the cable and twist stitches down the center, the rib stitch she decided on at the last moment for the sleeves. “This is mine,” she would say, running her fingers over the yarn that was once a pile on her kitchen floor while her husband sat nearby humming “The Night Visiting Song.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Maybe I’d wear that sweater again someday. It would look cute with those ankle pants. I began to imagine reading my Erasmus paper in that outfit at a writing conference, perhaps the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I would look fantastic, and I would express something about The Praise of Folly that nobody had thought of before.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
// From "Lessons in Folly (an excerpt from Twirl)" by @calliefeyen, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
The plan for the weekend was to worship, listen to speakers, and be together as a community. The only problem: child care was no longer available. After spending two full mornings tucked away in a separate room for the kids to be loud in, I break down into tears. I feel alone. I long for a physical second body. One to share responsibilities with. Mentally and physically I am drained.
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I walk outside to get some fresh air. The only place to sit is a cold metal bench facing a dreary pond. I look to my left and see two canoes. Not one person has dared take them into the green water while we’ve been here. Built to hold people while floating on water, instead they sit upside down on a piece of wood. I feel like the canoes: unnoticed and not living to my potential. Tears fall down my face.
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I don’t understand why I’m still single, I think to myself. I know I am being the best mama to my daughter that I can be, but I also feel I am missing out on something beautiful: a complete family. I long to be loved.
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A couple weeks later, I sprint around the house early one morning. My daughter is sleeping and I am already late for work. Again. With only one shoe on, running around like a madwoman, I  look for my lunch box. It is nowhere to be found.
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My daughter wakes up just in time.
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“What are you looking for, Momma?”
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“My lunch box.” I reply.
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“Oh! Hold on,” she says with utter excitement.
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She crawls out of bed, stumbles into the living room and comes back with my lunch box.
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“Here you go Momma, I made your lunch for you last night!”
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I peek inside the lunchbox to see all of her plastic play food in there. My heart bursts with pure joy.
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We head our way to the car to repeat another day.
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Turns out there is love for me after having a baby. I was just looking in all the wrong places. She was right in front of me the entire time.
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// #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member @woodyface #loveafterbabies
Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
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I proceeded to shop as the suckle, suckle, swallow sound drowned out the cart’s squeaky wheels. I casually scanned produce and peeked inside an egg carton, acting as if this was my norm. I’m just the kind of mom who goes on about life with a baby attached to her nipple for all to see. No big deal. At first I avoided eye contact with other shoppers, particularly with the middle aged man who happened to need the same tub of Greek yogurt at the exact moment I bent over to grab mine. When I saw him lingering near the sweet potatoes and sneaking glances, I pulled down on my son’s chin, attempting to widen his latch and hide more of my breast. His mouth slipped off for a moment, and I’m pretty sure the man saw my boob. Welcome to motherhood.
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But a funny thing happened by the time I reached aisle four; I felt confident, almost proud. I felt like a mom. As it turns out, the past five years have produced a mom who knows what she’s doing every now and then.
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// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile
Birth exposes you in ways you’re not expecting, and I don’t just mean the most private areas of your body, which are exposed to a room full of medical professionals. It exposes your heart, too. Never before have I been so incapable of hiding my innermost feelings; the love for my newborn son, the fear for my ruined body, the awareness of the fragility of life. My husband saw me at my weakest, in every possible way. Now, six weeks later, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. What if this experience has completely changed how he feels about me?
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My doctor gave me the green light to resume normal activity. I’m healed, she says. But here I am, sitting at a green light, frozen in place. Green light means go, but I’m scared to move forward.
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I take a step closer to the mirror, then shimmy out of my yoga pants and tank top, slipping on the black lace lingerie. Maybe he doesn’t see me the same way. But it’s possible that what he says is true, and after all this, he loves me even more. I want so desperately to trust him and let his reassurances drown out the self-deprecating voice in my head.
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God had to literally knock me off my feet for me to finally let someone see me completely. All I want to do right now is build my walls back up, but I won’t. Isn’t this the whole idea of marriage? Truly seeing someone and loving them anyway? And truly letting yourself be seen and letting yourself be loved?
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Our bedroom door quietly creaks open. I turn toward my husband, my heart racing with fear and anticipation and everything in between. Within seconds, he’s crossed the room, filling the space between us.
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His kiss tells me more than words possibly could.
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// From "Green Light Means Go" by an anonymous guest writer, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
A stack of puzzles sits atop our office desk. Each puzzle has at least one missing piece. We’ve searched couch cushions, rearranged furniture, and moved tables and dressers. We don’t give up, at least not yet; the stack of puzzles attests to that fact. Their presence reminding us to keep looking, to keep hoping to find what is lost.
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I want to tell my husband that our marriage, or our love more aptly, is like those missing puzzle pieces.
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Not necessarily lost for all time, but buried underneath something else.
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I try to remember the excitement and tingle of first love and the joy of being together on long car rides. Those feelings are still there, yet most days I fear they’re buried beneath the rigors and busyness of our day-to-day lives.
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Some days I’ll go to bed without saying goodnight or giving a good night kiss - not because I don’t feel anything, but because I just can’t do one more thing.
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My love lies hidden with the puzzle pieces under the couch.
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The other day, our daughter came running to us both. Cheering and exclaiming, “This, this, this!” as she shows us a puzzle piece. She places it in the missing hole. The puzzle is complete once again.
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She’s cheering, we’re cheering.
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The piece wasn’t lost, just waiting for us to find it. Waiting for us to be surprised by its presence once again.
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There are moments when my feelings of love come bursting forth. I want to cheer, too, like my daughter. “This, this, this. This is the love I know and felt.” I want to jump for joy again and fall into your arms.
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I hope we’ll keep unearthing this love, keep searching for it, for years to come. Leaving pieces of ourselves and this love wherever we go.
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We fit together, you and I.
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We belong together like the one missing piece that can’t be found until you’ve stopped looking for it, and find it suddenly right where you left it.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member Kimberly Knowle-Zeller
"We’ll figure it out." They seem like rote, meaningless words, don’t they? If there’s a continuum from the solid confidence of “A Plan” to the futility of “Grasping at Straws,” “figuring it out” feels like it falls closer to the latter. In the face of fear and uncertainty about things as big and weighty as health and financial stability, it’s a solution so nebulous and ambiguous that it should fall flat upon delivery. Instead it has provided courage, absolution, and comfort by turn.
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Why?
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I can’t be sure, but I think it’s the “we” that makes the difference. My fear and shame is Jon’s. His worry and anxiety is mine. It’s not just my stuff to work through or his to deal with. It’s ours, and I’m learning that it’s just as much an act of love to allow someone else to carry your burdens as it is to be the one who offers to help. We’ll figure it out has become our shorthand for “I’m going to help you carry this and you’re going to let me because of the love between us.”
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It took six months of the tightest budget imaginable, but we figured out quitting my job.
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It took a few extra writing gigs and moving some money from savings, but we figured out the credit card bill.
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And it took two weeks of tests, but I was sitting in the doctor’s office with Jon when we found out that his heart is fine—the irregularities are harmless and nothing to worry about.
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After 10 years of marriage, we’ve learned there are times for plans and research and arguments and spreadsheets. And then there are times to close the computer, stop debating, and make the call. There are my battles, his battles, and the ones we fight together, guarding each other’s weak side. There are nights when we stay up for hours, talking through options. And there are nights when the only words we need are "I know." "I understand." "We’ll figure it out."
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// From "We'll Figure It Out" by @jennbatchelor, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

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