Please be kind to my nipples

On breastfeeding expectations and a mother’s instinct

[Disclaimer: If breastfeeding is a sore subject (sorry I couldn’t resist), please note that this post is an explicit recount of my, not so easy, experience.]

Bringing home our baby feels like a blur now. The tiny beautiful details of those very early days have been since painted over with pain.

Looking back, I feel a bit robbed of that ‘sweet quiet nesting time’ everyone always goes on about. Our baby did the whole frog sleep on your chest thing for about a minute and then was more interested in using every ounce of energy in its tiny long, string bean of a body to move, wriggle, and see the world. Curious is an understatement. At first this was extremely frustrating and completely undermined my expectation of what this first chapter was supposed to be. Having expectations period was a rookie mistake. There was no cuddling, no cradling, no sweet chest to chest naps on the couch or bed. Our little one craved movement and to be upright and perched over your shoulder, looking out onto the world — which just so happened to be the confines of a 3 room apartment.

And then there was breastfeeding. Of course I had romanticized this act in my head for years. The skin to skin sweetness. The eternal eye gazing. Instead it was filled with my own stench, compliments of August heat waves, and wretched, twisted pain that in some ways was worse than my natural birth itself.

The irony is that I spent months preparing for the birth — after all that’s what everyone talks about. I felt as though the moment a mom saw me pregnant, it was some sort of silent permission to share her birth story, whether I inquired or not. So, naturally I went to birth courses. I listened to hypo-birthing tracks. I visualized the birth. I practiced different birthing positions. I prepped all of the dim lighting, aromatherapy, and calming music — and of course when game day came I used none of it. And yes, it was fucking painful. Probably the worst pain of my life. But it was acute, I knew it would end [relatively soon], and I knew the reward would be a person I waited my whole life to meet.

Breastfeeding pain on the other hand, went on and on and on, dragging my soul and entire being behind it in the process. My fellow mothers, my midwife and all the online black hole forums agave me a range of 2-6 weeks, numbers that I laminated in my head. Numbers I held far too close for hope and relief. Mistake number two.

At first there’s the whole milk coming in process, known as ‘engorgement’. Yes that was uncomfortable — swollen, tight, hot, and rock hard (yes, I know how it sounds, but it was anything but sexual). Yet, this was basically a cake walk for what was to come.

Before I gave birth, I watched two YouTube videos on breastfeeding and just assumed my body was naturally made for this, that it would I dunno, just happen — how naive. Moments after my baby finally popped out of me, we tried our first attempt. The midwife placed my little one on my belly and I waited for their vernix smeared head to root around instinctively looking for my nipple for their first nutrition in the outside world. It didn’t quite happen. That should have been my first sign. We tried on our sides and it seemed to do the trick, though my late night delirium and the ecstasy of delivery has since clouded that precious memory.

My third mistake was relying on the nurses for guidance. Somewhere between overworked and uninterested, I not only got poor support, but I got the wrong information. They basically just plopped the baby on the tip of my nipple and let them go at it with the worst shallow latch ever. I assumed the beginning would be painful, so I just bit my lip and carried on. I often have outer body experiences hovering over that happy woman in the hospital and how clueless she was of what was to come.

Fast forward 4 weeks after birth to my raw, bleeding, scabbed nipples that never got more than 2 hours rest, never mind recovery. And the fun didn’t stop there. I had cracked nipples, multiple clogged milk ducts, which eventually gave way to fever and infection and mastitis. All the while, feeding rounding the clock. The cruel irony is that the ‘best medicine’ for these ailments was more feeding. I will never forget being in bed sweating with a fever at 3am, knowing I that I somehow had to muster up the energy and will to get up and into the shower to heat and massage my boobs, then feed my baby, enduring what felt like razor blades/glass shards against my nipples, and then cool them with icepacks for another 15mins, while my body was shivering, then hopefully get at least 30 minutes of sleep until the whole cycle started all over again. I remember thinking in that moment, what did I sign up for? I am not strong enough for this. I am not the mother I thought I would be.

I felt like an absolute failure. I felt worthless. I felt defeated. The one thing that was required of me, giving this little body nutrients to survive and grow, was the one thing that felt utterly impossible to do.

The latch was the issue. My little one couldn’t get enough of the boob into their mouth, and was doing something called a ‘Lip stick’ latch. On top of that after I had a not so common condition called Raynaud’s phenomenon, where blood vessels constrict causing a burning, throbbing sensation. That and your nipple turns white. I also experienced the sensation of pins and needles when I had a let down of milk — it took me a while to discern that this discomfort was actually a normal one.

And on the topic of let downs, it turns out I also had a milk oversupply, which feels like some weird fine fucked up line between a blessing and a curse. My breasts were overflowing — while feeding on one side the other boob could let down anything up to 60ml without any stimulation. I also had what’s called a fast flow, where breastmilk would shoot out of my nipple like a water gun for seconds at a time. I had to watch my baby choke and cough and pound on my chest in frustration, and it all left me asking myself, was I doing the right thing?

To make matters worse, as soon as I anticipated the next feed and my entire body would tense up, anxiety and stress flooded me, and the vicious cycle would continue. I feared my baby.

And I felt so much guilt knowing that my little one could feel it too.

I dreaded nights the most. All of this pain and guilt and struggle seemed amplified in the darkness. And I felt so much more alone.

Another 4 weeks came and went and I was beginning to become manic and frantic. I lost it on countless occasions, screaming, snapping at myself, my partner, my baby, the dead air. I felt mentally unwell. And multiple meltdowns turned into an absolute breakdown. When you don’t know how long something will last combined with sleep deprivation, you start to unravel. And I no longer had that 8 week marker to keep my spirit going.

We went to multiple lactation consultants, including ‘the best in the city’. It was worth it in the sense that it helped boost my confidence. But other than that it, it was extremely frustrating because it turns out for the most part I was doing everything ‘right’. And there were no tongue, lip or cheek ties.

The only thing left to do was to surrender and try to ‘relax’. The words I kept hearing over and over from everyone in my life. Well the funny thing about telling someone in a heightened state to relax is that is does exactly the opposite. But I knew this was the big missing key, so I leaned in.

Before I’d bring my baby to my bosom, I’d breath in and out deeply in preparation and then continued through the pain that sliced through me.

To offer both self-compassion and compassion to my little one, after the shooting pain of the initial latch slightly wore off, I silently repeated my mantra, “We’re still learning”. After all, it’s both of our first times trying this thing out. It just happened to be that the learning curve was far steeper than I imagined.

For a long time, I felt immense guilt talking about my breastfeeding journey. After all, there are so many women out there, who desperately want to, but can’t.

To all the mothers struggling to breastfeed, I see you. To all the mothers, who wished they could breastfeed, but can’t, I’m hugging you. To all the mothers that chose not to breastfeed, I respect you.

I felt lucky and unlucky, all at the same time. I had all of this milk and all of this pain and I struggled. And I didn’t feel like I had the right to speak about it because so many never even get the opportunity. And for those who did know about my struggle, their soft, compassionate eyes said what their lips didn't dare to, “Why don’t you just give up?”. I could feel like they thought it was simply a stubborn act of defiance that was just making everyone miserable in the process. That I didn’t know where the line was.

I wrestled with my ego. Why was this so important to me? Was I just tethered to a dream? Should I just give up? But there was something wild inside of me that refused this. That tuned out the looks. That knew that breastfeeding was right, for me and my baby.

There was some primal urge deep within me that whispered, “Press on, there will be light, there will be nourishment, and one day there will be joy.”. And then of course my brain couldn’t help but chime in and say, “Yes, but yourself a deadline.” So I quietly told myself, if this persisted for more than another month, then it was time to throw in the towel.

And just like that, this secret promise gave way to an energetic release, a surrendering to what is and what may be.

And then the shift came. Something broke. The pain eased.

With the beauty of time, the scabs had fallen and the wounds had healed. I’d like to believe that it was because my baby and I were finally deeply listening to each other. That we had gotten into a groove, worn smooth with every latch. That we didn’t give up on each other. That and their mouth was bigger.

Four months later, we’re latching everywhere and anywhere.

It’s a special rare calm moment in the day when I scoop them up to feed — it’s the beautiful bond that I dreamed of. Their heart shaped lips snug around my nipple, their little fingers wrapped around my forefinger. Hugging my boob with their Michelin man arms. Those thick folds that are the product of my milk. My mother’s milk.

Rooting around like a tiny mole, my little one even finds my nipple in the dark with ease and slurps it up in comfort, their fingers reaching for the skin of my soft belly.

Their body is bigger, firmer and stronger now and I don’t need to worry about varying the feeding positions to prevent milk duct clogs anymore. We feed in all acrobatic positions. We feed on the go, upright, in mid-air, outside, with absolute ease, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because it is. And I’ve almost, almost forgotten the agony of those early days. That monster inside of me has been stuffed back into its box, waiting patiently for darker days of another kind.

Oh and hey, we’ve officially entered the teething phase, those little toothy grins are priceless when I can crack a good giggle. It’s not quite as funny when those jagged little white nubs nip my nipples. But then again, I know where we came from and I know we got this.