Slam Your Finger & Feed That Baby

You know that feeling when you shut your car door but the tip of your finger is still inside? That moment you blackout in pain? Now open the door and place your hand in, just so your fingertips are in the exact same spot. And slam the door. Do this over and over again. Welcome to the first 24 hours of breastfeeding Josie.

I read the books, took the classes, watched all the videos from all the influencers on Instagram who still have perky boobs despite exclusively breastfeeding 8 children for the past 19 years consecutively. I felt prepared to breastfeed my baby because “breast is best”. Breastmilk is magic. It goes for like $5/ounce to bodybuilders on the black market. And the plan was for my daughter to get that sweet liquid gold for 365 days. But, going with the theme of her beginnings, nothing went as planned. But spoiler- Josie is still alive and doing just fine.

I had just done the two hardest tasks of my life. I grew a human being out of nothing but pizza rolls and then I pushed her gigantic little body out of my own. And after such heroic tasks, I was ready for the world to throw a giant parade in my honor and mostly nap. But instead, the world put that screaming stranger into my arms and told me to feed it.

The car door analogy was given to me by the hospital lactation consultant. One of the world’s newest humans belonged to me and was a lazy eater. She would rather doze off or look around than get a good latch. We tried nearly every 20 minutes for almost 24 hours. What if we move this pillow here or try to sit me up more or position her like a football or a sloth or whatever else they said. It wasn't working and everyone was exhausted and emotional. But it was me who wasn't producing enough milk, was cracked, bleeding, and ready to throw that football baby to the nearest passerby. It was my fault and my baby was starving and I was failing my first job of parenthood.

The lactation consultant was the first person to come in and affirm how I was feeling. "It's like you are slamming that door over and over again. And it's awful. You are doing a good job." The kind woman gave me some tools to ease the pain and help our little lazy sloth latch better. And we went home. And we woke her up to nurse her every two hours for two weeks like we were told to do. And that little sloth became a big chubby girl. But the story doesn't end there. Because mom and baby don't just get to lay in bed and eat snacks all day.

Four weeks after Josie was born, I had a 13 hour gig. Josie was not yet taking a bottle well. So I pumped all the milk she would need for the day, knowing she may reject it all because it wasn't on tap. It was excruciating. I was being held together with stitches, glue, and delirium then pumping in my car and public bathrooms to keep my supply up. This was a choice I made. I chose to go back to work when I did, I chose to breastfeed, and I chose to pump and drive and flash about a dozen truck drivers on the highway. (#yourewelcome)

Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that I HAD to breastfeed. I knew formula was an option, I knew that fed is actually best, I affirmed (and secretly envied) mamas who chose to do formula because that is what was best for their families. But that was not an option for me. Not one ounce of formula would go into Josie's system because, if it did, I had failed as her mother. This lie skipped along down the road, hand in hand with my postpartum disorder.

I pushed through. Eventually, it stopped hurting. Josie got a better latch, I used a shield, and we pumped and bottle-fed a lot. Eventually, I got into a rhythm of nursing or pumping seven then five then two times a day. My first and last thought of every day was about milk. Eventually, I had over 1000 ounces in our (and our neighbor's) freezer. I became so fixated on that number. I needed to have that much in stock before I would stop. Eventually, I stopped hating it so much and actually found a few moments of "aw, this is kind of a sweet thing between us, JoJo."

In October, we went on a family trip to Maine. We ate lots of food, went on lots of hikes, and went to bed at 7:30pm like the party animals we are. This is when we decided I would wean Josie. This is also the time we decided we should do the hardest hike of our life. Josie is a great traveler but after a few miles and 600 feet of elevation change, she was DONE. We walked off the path onto some rocks and got the most spectacular view of Jordan Pond. And it was here that I nursed Josie for one of the last times. Josh snapped this photo of us and I feel like superwoman when I see it.

 I spent over 2000 hours feeding my daughter over 14 months. (If you're wondering, a full-time job with three weeks of vacation is 1,960 hours a year.) I did it. I set a goal and I crushed it and I am so proud of myself. Was it difficult? Obviously. Did it take a toll on my mental and physical health? Without question. Would I do it again? I'm not sure. Am I sad this chapter is over? Absolutely. It's strange to reflect on something and be so proud and feel so sad at the same time. I am so proud of myself that I didn't quit when it got hard. And I am so sad that I held myself to a standard I would never hold anyone else to.

Through the Maternal Wellness Program, I have talked to a lot of moms, nurses, and doctors about my journey through motherhood and I’ve been honored to hear their stories as well. How a family feeds their baby is a personal and intimate choice. If you hear nothing else, please hear that FED IS BEST. Breastfeeding isn't always intuitive and takes a lot of work sometimes. If you keep trying and trying and finally get it- great job. If you try and decide to go to formula- great job. If you decide to do formula from the get-go- great job.

Fed is best.  YOU ARE DOING A GREAT JOB!

Snacks, Postpartum Depression, and Other Things That Are Real.

When we brought Josie home from the hospital, we lifted her tiny body out of her car seat and laid her on a pretty blanket on the floor. She stared at us, we stared at her, and waited for her to do something. The first weeks are a blur of feeding and diaper changes and crying and bits of sleep.

Josh was able to take a week off of work to stay home with Josie and I. I would not have survived without him. This man woke up at every night feeding to get me more water and snacks. He changed so many diapers, rocked and shhh'd our girl back to sleep and was a swaddle pro. But seven days after I birthed Josie into the world, I was home alone with her. When she woke for the day, I unswaddled our little burrito and walked down the hall to the stairs.

When I approached the steps, a heat wave came over my body. I got dizzy and my breathing quickened. I sat down on the top step, holding my 8 pound baby. I remained there for almost an hour. I realized that Josh had always carried Josie up and down the stairs. I had never done it before. And the fear of tripping and dropping my baby literally froze me in that hallway with the bad carpet and textured walls.

In my recovery room at the hospital, I remember Dr. Brandt (the saint and angel who delivered Josie) saying something about hormones and that I may be weepy for the next few weeks and that this is normal and don't read into it too much. I did not know this could include me spontaneously combusting into tears at absolutely nothing or feeling rage creep up behind me encouraging me to put my fist through the dining room wall. I'd never cried the entire time I'd eaten lasagna before. What was wrong with me?!

When Josh returned home after his first day back, I handed him our daughter and screamed "I hate this! I hate breastfeeding, I hate crying all the time, I don't want to do this!" A few hours later, my phone rang and it was Diane, Dr. Brandt's nurse. She asked how I was doing. I wanted to scream, "Not great Diane!" I may have even yelled this but I think I just began crying. Again. She gave me the Edinburg Test over the phone. This is a ten question screening that helps determine if a mother could be experiencing postpartum depression or anxiety. The screening includes a mom's reactions to statements like "things have been getting on top of me" and "I have felt scared or panicky for no very good reason." 

I sat at the dining room table, trying to respond honestly and being completely humiliated by my answers. She let me know I scored quite high on the Edinburg scale. "Katie, I am not going to get off the phone with you until we make a plan to get you the help you need." Diane did not know this at the time, but this is the moment where she saved my life.

As I sit at a coffee shop and write this, over a year later, I wish I could go hug myself as a new mama. I was so riddled with postpartum anxiety and depression that it took every ounce of my strength to pull myself out of bed, feed Josie, and sometimes feed myself. I was in a deep pit that I could not climb out of by myself. And even worse, I did my very best to make sure my closest friends and family had no idea. I imagined telling someone I was depressed and didn't feel a connection to Josie and them assuming I hated my baby and wanted to hurt her so she would get taken away from me.

Diane helped me make a plan. She pointed me to a postpartum support group that I began attending the day after our call and have gone to nearly every Tuesday since. (Shout out to the Maternal Wellness Program!) I began meeting with a therapist and started on a low dose of Zoloft. A volunteer from Moms Bloom came over for once a week for two months. Isabelle snuggled and played with Josie and I knew she was well cared for while I did normal adult human being things like shower and laundry and scroll Instagram. And I did all this while responding to texts from family and friends that I was great and Josie was great and motherhood was great. You know, how you lie to the people you love to not appear vulnerable and needy? You know how you laugh about it so you won't cry about it?

I debated with myself for a long time over sharing my postpartum story. It felt like inviting the world to see all the ugly and messy parts that I needed to keep hidden in order to remain loved by others, be a good mom, and keep up the appearance that a modern woman can truly have it all. (And by "it all", I mean rolling up to work with dry shampoo in, expired mascara on, still in your maternity jeans, and the certainty that spit up isn't on you. Probably.) But I know that postpartum issues are common and not talked about enough. So I hope I can open the door, even just a little bit.

If you get one thing out of this blog post it should be that Postpartum Depression and Anxiety is real and uninvited. Those amazing mamas who suffer from this do not hate their children, they are not lazy or neurotic. They love their child so much that their brain has gone through a thousand scenarios that could put them in danger and can be paralyzed with their responsibility to this tiny, precious life. A new mom without postpartum disorders needs a shower, warm meals, naps, cozy socks, and the reassurance that she is doing a FREAKING GREAT JOB! And a new mom with PPD need all of those too. She may also benefit from a support group, a counselor, medication, and extra help from family and friends. And this is NOTHING to be ashamed of.

Diane asked me one additional question on the phone that day. "Who do you have helping you?" And I cried to her than other than Josh, there was no one. And this was of my own doing. I did not know before Josie that we would need help and I did not know how to ask for it after. I thought I may have been too proud to ask but I really think I may have just been too ashamed. I know we have a whole community who loves us and our daughter and who may read this and say "I didn't know" or "I would have helped!" I know this now and hope you can pass that love and service on to other parents as well.

Friends and family, please know that new parents don't always know what they need. Never show up unannounced or empty handed. Don't ask "what can I do?" Just start doing dishes or laundry or mowing the lawn. Bring them diapers and snacks and food and more snacks. (If you haven't learned by now, snacks are very, VERY important.) Tell the new parents in your life that they are doing a FREAKING GREAT JOB! They need to hear this.

New parents, you were not meant to parent alone. You were meant to be able to rest and heal from the event of birth. You were meant to learn how to feed your child in whatever way is best for you and your family. You are allowed to invite people in and show people out whenever you'd like. You are doing the important and holy work of raising a human being. You are doing a FREAKING GREAT JOB, even when it doesn't feel like it.