Disclaimer: This post includes detailed reality that may freak you out. Read with caution.
I guess you could say, that when I was pregnant, I was a tad emotional. I would burst into tears at any given moment, for no reason in particular. Sometimes these were brief tear-fests. And sometimes these were full blown, mascara dripping, Kleenex destroying, hysterical meltdowns. My poor husband.
At times, the mere mention of breastfeeding would jumpstart one of these snot-fests. I really can't explain why. Honestly, I have no idea.
I knew I wanted to breastfeed and was determined to make it work. My husband, the ultimate 'helper', would secretly research this and watch videos in order to fill me in on what I needed to know. One day, I finally asked him "How are you such an expert at this?" To which he spilled his guts and admitted to his extensive internet searches.
As my due date got closer, the reality of this was starting to set in. One of my best friends brought me her Medela pump and gave me a quick tutorial on how to hook up to the intimidating milk machine. I was so disturbed, I left the damn thing sitting on the end table for the next three weeks, secretly hoping it would disappear. It didn't.
Fast forward to April 10, 2013, 24 hours after I had gone into labor. There I was. Exhausted, having slept only 20 minutes in the last 40 hours, holding my red, wrinkly, 8lb, bundle of happiness in the post-partum recovery room. All I wanted was to soak up every second of this moment with my brand-new little family.
Nothing ruins the joyous moment like a nurse you've never met before, barging in the room to squeeze your boob and throw your nipple into your peacefully sleeping baby's tiny mouth. (Anyone ever tell you, modesty goes out the window when you become a mom?)
Needless to say the first week and a half of breastfeeding was hardly enjoyable. And it would have been really easy to give up. There really isn't anything glamorous about painful blood blisters, rubbed raw skin, greasy lanolin, rubber nipple shields, staining every shirt that actually fits your squishy body, and copious amounts of spit-up. Not to mention, the fear and worry that comes from questions like: Is he getting enough milk? Is he overeating? Is his spit-up supposed to look like that? Did I burp him long enough? Am I burping him too hard? Will he choke if he spits up in his sleep? How do I use this damn Boppy? The list goes on.
The best thing I did, was to stick with it. It took awhile for my little piranha and me to get into a good routine, but it did eventually happen. Even now, it isn't flawless. But some of my favorite times together are when he's eating. It melts my heart when he stops slurping, stares into my soul with his big, blue eyes and gives me a HUGE, milk dripping smile. It really is the absolute best. I wouldn't change it for anything.
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