There's a strong possibility that a solid 70% of my brain space these days is taken up with just boob knowledge.
Now, I'm gonna pause here before I even start and acknowledge that feeding a baby is an unfortunately, unfairly, and unreasonably controversial subject out there in the great wide world. There is a horrendous amount of shaming moms for being private about breastfeeding, shaming for being public about breastfeeding, shaming for how long or how short you breastfeed, shaming for the choice to use formula AND breastmilk, shaming for the choice to use formula OVER breastmilk for any number of reasons (mental health, lack of support, supply issues, pain, really freaking hating breastfeeding...ALL reasons are valid because it's Mom who chooses, no one else)....
The point is, there's a TON of pressure put on moms to feed their infant how everyone else says they should.
For example: Infant formula containers have "breast is best" printed right on the label. Talk about a guilt trip! I loathe that phrase.
Hospital maternity wing walls (at least the three L and D wings I visited) are plastered with messages that breastmilk is the best gift you can give to your baby, makes you a superhero, is a sacrifice we must all choose. So what does that make moms who don't breastfeed? Are they not superheros? Are their babies going to waste away, unloved and neglected? OF COURSE NOT.
Many lactation consultants are passionate to the point of intimidation and sometimes have a hard time listening to a struggling mother, instead offering more and more and MORE coaching. Maybe mom needs someone knowledgeable to tell her it's okay if breastfeeding isn't going to be part of her journey, that her baby is going to be healthy and happy because she is healthy and happy, and that whether or not baby gets boob juice is no measure of a mother.
Here's the deal: Many mothers develop post partum depression in part due to the very real struggle that breastfeeding can present and the messages we are inundated with before baby is even born. So. Let's cut it out. Educate, don't intimidate. Support, don't add stress. Respect Mom's personal goals. And listen.
A fed baby is a fed baby. And that is that.
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On with the story.
The journey to Boob Brain (different than Pregnancy Brain or Mom Brain) began long before baby was born. Before baby, it was all general curiosity and normal research into how the heck you feed a baby using your own body. It's not preprogrammed information -- it's a seriously practiced skill -- and I wanted to at least know the basics of how to begin.
Then I found out that baby was coming extra early.
I knew, from all my reading, that breast tissue is fully matured and ready to do its job during the second trimester, but I was worried that somehow an early baby would spell trouble for getting the ball rolling simply because of their earliness.
A conversation with a consulting neonatologist went like this:
Me: "This might be a dumb question."
Her: "Please, ask anything." Bless her.
Me: "If you give birth at 31 weeks and by C-section...what tells your body it's time to feed a baby? Does time in the womb have anything to do with sending the signal, per se?"
Her: "The signal to start lactating begins as soon as there's no longer a baby in you."
Me: "Cool, awesome, great."
A week later, baby was born and Dr. Singh was right, no need to worry: my body got the message. Pretty neat.
The first night, perhaps three hours after having a baby pulled out of a seven-layer incision in my abdomen (not to be confused with the Mexican inspired bean dip), I learned how to hand express colostrum. The Coolest Nurse Ever named Angie showed me how and then Hunter and I were off to the races, collecting tiny drops every two hours, day and night, in bright orange 1ml syringes.
We had a multitude of alarms on our phones:
Hand express. Pain meds. Hand express. Visit baby. Hand express. Meet with doctor. Hand express. Hand express. Hand express.
My whole inner purpose as a NICU mom was to Feed. That. Baby. Because I couldn't do anything else for him....machines kept him breathing. IVs hydrated him. An isolette kept him warm.
Breastmilk was my battle cry.
And, BOY, did my body answer the call. Over the next three days in the hospital, things really started to pick up. The NICU was running out of freezer space for the now several ounces I could pump every three hours. Baby was eating only 10 millileters at a time at first and slowly crept up in amount with each passing day. I was outpacing him in a big way. And I was super happy about that.
Looking back, if I had been one of the many moms with preeclampsia who did not get through the ordeal unscathed -- that is to say that they had further complications and had to be hospitalized, often with life threatening ailments -- I more than likely would have had a false start to breastfeeding, perhaps never establishing a supply, and not getting to lean in to the experience as a catharsis for the fact that my baby wasn't home with me. And I'm pretty sure I would have lost my mind. Providing his food was everything to me. And the posters in the hospital said it was my job. And the lactation consultant called every day to ask about it. And the whole dang world said "breast is best", Chloe.
So thank my lucky stars that I could actually do it. I'm not sure how I would have dealt with the crushing blow had I not, but I know a lot of NICU moms who have experienced that extreme disappointment, guilt and heartache.
When Hunter and I went home from the hospital, I set up my "pump station". I pumped religiously every three hours. We washed parts. Bagged milk. Labeled it. I drank so much water....so much. I ate so much food...SO MUCH. And it was blatantly apparent that I was what in the breastfeeding world is called an "overproducer". All it means is that I made more than the average maximum amount that a baby can eat. But I made a LOT more. Soon the freezer was full. Then the garage chest freezer (a gift from family specifically to deal with this oversupply) was full. There was no end in sight and nowhere else to store it and no single baby was going to make their way through that stock.
Enter: Human Milk 4 Human Babies.
It's an organization that connects oversupplier moms, or moms with a stock that their child no longer eats, to moms near them that cannot provide breastmilk for their own babies for whatever reason but who would like to continue the breastmilk journey with the help of donations. The organization is strict about the transactions being purely donations and I liked that it was simply moms helping moms.
This was my answer!
A little over a thousand total ounces of milk went out to five different moms and their babies over the next couple of months. It was then that my sister sent me the story on the HM4HB Facebook group of a baby like mine, but born ELEVEN weeks early during the same week. He was one ounce heavier at birth than my own. He spent two months in the NICU. And his tummy was not doing great with formula.
A couple of missed phone calls, long Facebook messages, and calendar finaglings later and his mom and I agreed to a long term donation partnership. It is a totally new kind of warm fuzzy feeling to know that all my work is benefitting two NICU nuggets.
And it is WORK. 7am, 10am, 1pm, 4pm, 7pm 10pm, 3am. That's the pump schedule. Give or take a half hour here or there to allow for life. At the start, there was a 1am pump as well.
All pumps take about 25 minutes from sitting down to bottling and bagging the milk. Except for the 3am pump. That one takes foreeeverrrr because at that point I've waited five hours.
I have learned how to simultaneously give the baby his bottle and pump at the same time in order to keep the schedule.
The dishwasher is run twice a day for pump and bottle parts and regular life dishes.
I remember the first time I got a clogged duct and thought it was the cruelest, meanest, worst joke a body could pull on a breastfeeding mom. (Side note: taking sunflower lecithin daily greatly decreases the number of clogs)
I remember when I got thrush and then I REALLY knew what the cruelest, meanest, worst joke is.
I am hungry all the time. I am thirsty all the time. I burn through vitamins. I use literally 42 breastmilk storage bags a week.
Sometimes I haaaate it. Sometimes I resent that my life is seemingly ruled by a pump schedule. Sometimes I resent that I have to pump when I'd rather hang out with my family or do aaaannything else. Sometimes I put off pumping until the last minute because I just don't waaaaaanna. Sometimes I curse the tear-away tabs from breastmilk bags that litter the counter. Sometimes I glare at the sticky milk drips on Every. Possible. Surface. Sometimes the sound of the pump motor makes its way into my dreams. Sometimes I despise loading and unloading all the fiddly little pump and bottle parts from the dishwasher. Sometimes I wince when my skin is just so done with the friction of the pump, no amount of coconut oil can save you on a bad day. I would always rather go to bed at 9pm than wait for the 10pm pump. I would always rather not drag myself out of bed at 3am to go fumble with the pump in the near dark so I don't wake myself up too much with bright lights and end up not being able to go back to sleep again. Which happens a couple times a week.
I have to choose to keep doing this every day. And I do. And I will for as long as it makes sense for me.
Right now it still makes sense because two babies are growing.
And I have an incredible family support system.
And I have found encouraging online communities that support moms who exclusively pump (rather than nursing).
And I am still happy to do it. And I am grateful that I can. And I am thankful for this body. And I am proud of what it does.