“You never look good trying to make someone else look bad.”

I have scored a room to myself, and the cranky nurses seem to be leaving me alone. Besides feeling like I’ve been snap-kicked to the guts every time I stand, I’m doing quite well. I’m breastfeeding, so I haven’t been yelled at this time. I understand the advantages and it’s hard not to get wrapped up in the overbearing messages. It’s an obvious overcompensation of the medical sectors boo-boos for not cultivating a ‘healthy’ view of how to feed babies over the last 100 years. It’s a confusing world. Breast is best. We get it. But formula is also lifesaving-ly awesome too.

We know breastfeeding is an extension of birth, with the amazing let-down of prolactin and oxytocin hormones to create a little love bubble nest for mum and bub. From the voices I’d heard since my first son was born, it didn’t work out for me because I did something wrong. It’s my fault. It’s a learnt skill. I wasn’t smart enough. I wasn’t informed enough. Good intentions from successful breast-feeders often felt like a slap in the face, as they would sympathise, “yes, it’s hard.” I could only interpret this as, “it’s hard and can only be mastered by the willing and brave, the persistent and committed.” Funnily enough, he thrived on formula, but I still feel like I have something to prove. This is what the tribe call the out-workings of ‘Mother Guilt’.

I book to see a lactation consultant while still pregnant. It wasn’t helpful. She talked at me about sleep patterns for 40 minutes, but I’m booked to see her again the day before my scheduled birth, the afternoon he is born and also in the days before being discharged. For those next 3 appointments my assigned lactation consultant is a no show. The nurses can’t find her, however, Little One feeds and sleeps, unlike my previous hungry, screaming ball that was my first born son. The midwives guide me and say he is latching perfectly. I’m praised for doing so well. Maybe I’ve got the hang of it this time? See, I’m willing and brave, persistent and committed!

He’s lost more than 10% of his weight so I’m asked to keep waking him to feed. All seems to be ok, however, once discharged the familiar agonising feeding pains emerge. He sleeps a lot, poos consistently and I have plenty of milk. I’m well informed. I execute the feeding practice with textbook precision. I’m not stupid. My God, it hurts. Visiting nurse, who is also a trained lactation consultant, says he’s losing too much weight. He’s sleeping a lot due to jaundice, so needs to feed more often. It hurts. She says, “keep going.” Lactation classes are full until after Christmas, sorry. I’ll call during the week to see how you are. No call.

By now I’m bleeding and sobbing through feeds. Where is my amazing love bubble nest? It occurs to me that it must have been hurting all along, but was being masked by my amazing concoction of pain meds while in hospital. I can’t latch him at all without shrieking in pain. This is exactly what happened last time! I exclusively pump for days, to heal what is broken and freeze any excess supply, along with using all the tricks; lanolin, expressed milk, air drying, nipple shields. I don’t get it. It is moving from hard to impossible. I join the Facebook groups for tips and tricks and emerge with the same conclusion. This has nothing to do with smarts or will. For some, this process is easy. For others it can be tricky, but achievable. Heck, where do I fit?

I decide to exclusively pump. I join the groups again and admire the tenacity of those who continue to provide nourishment when they struggle with the ‘feeding process’. Pumping works and feels brilliant. I have enough milk, and little love bubble nest returns. I try to feed the traditional way again, but each time I’m met with the same result. I could punch my fist through a wall.

I try to keep this up but I’m met with an overwhelming feeling of “I can’t do it all”. Looking at my toddler craving his mum, and a new little bub who just wants to be snuggled, I’m possessed by the pumping regime. I cry into hubby’s arms, defeated once more. I can’t do this. It’s not supposed to be like this. Why won’t it just work.

Robin Barker states, “There’s a common myth that mothers ‘choose’ not to breastfeed. In my experience – 30 years helping women to breastfeed – very few women make a deliberate choice not to breastfeed… A significant number of women experience painful, ongoing problems that never get resolved. They are often subjected to a barrage of conflicting advice, or alternatively left to their own devices wondering why it’s all so hard.”

If we’re going to be informed, let’s do this properly. Breastfeeding initiation is not the issue (90% of mothers intend and initiate breastfeeding). Duration is. Let’s get real about being informed. Women have always sought assistance in feeding, recorded as early as 2000BC and ‘lactation failures of the mothers’ recorded in writing since 1550BC. These issues are not new, however, instead of passing our babies to a family member or neighbour to help feed, we are now doing it all alone. Or instead of taking the risk using milk alternatives, animal milks or pap and panada, we now have science! Want to be informed? Just look up wet nurses, clay, wood and ceramic feeding vessels, linen clothes and sponges feeding, cow horns, pewter bubby-pots, pap boats! Want to be more informed? Check out infant mortality rates. The difference now is we have a safe alternative, which was unfortunately and mistakenly exalted above breastmilk over the last century, hence the clear tensions now between the two. They should be working together, but instead, they’ve become arch nemeses.

As the hormones shift, I begin to mourn losing this extension of birth. Baby blues set in as I feed little one the last bottle of expressed milk. ‘Mother Guilt’ rears its ugly head again, “you’re clearly not willing and brave, persistent and committed.”

The waves of feminism have opened up opportunities for women, but in doing so, we are expected to ‘do it all’ and we ‘do it all’ alone. I hold absolute admiration for my friends who feed their bubs exclusively. I admire my friends who admitted that they couldn’t do this alone. I admire my friends who made a choice right for them, in a world that seems to demand every inch of us. Breast is best, but in a society where motherhood is now an act of solitude, pointing the fingers and blaming the mothers isn’t the answer. We need motherhood community and better relationships, not another slogan. And maybe next time one of those intentionally divisive ‘feeding’ articles come up, just remember that the hurtful comments are generally from mothers looking for their own validation, clearly in the wrong place. It’s clear that we’re all trying to navigate this motherhood ride, and many doing it without a village.

And with that in mind, go in peace. Things done in love are done well…

…. and you’ve done exceptionally well.

“I bottle-fed, and I breastfed, and before I knew it, they were all eating stale french fries off the floor of the minivan, and I was like, whatever, thanks for cleaning.”

Don’t like it. Read the signs. Cheeky boy.