The Best-Laid Plans

During our latest attempt at cleaning the house, my husband held up a plastic bag and said, "Garbage?" in that hopeful tone we both use when we're asking each other if we can get rid of their stuff.  I paused.  "Wait. No. I want to keep these for a little while."  Here is the contents of that bag.

If you don't recognize what this mass of plastic is, it is a bunch of Dr. Brown's bottles and accessories, all of which I used to feed my baby when he was an infant.  I will explain to you why I have mixed feelings about this bag and what it represents.

I fought to be able to breast-feed my son.  For the first five weeks of his life, the little guy just didn't want to latch.   I could have made things a lot easier on myself by feeding him formula.  Instead, I went to the lactation center, and with the help of some wonderful people, I pumped out my milk, fed it to him in a bottle, and JUST KEPT TRYING.  Eventually, he latched.  That wasn't the end of my struggle, though.  Like I said, formula is a great alternative.  There is no shame in in formula-feeding, and maybe, if I had to do it over, I might have chosen that route, if just to save myself a lot of pain.

Only, that exhausting postpartum story wasn't the end of my breast-feeding saga. When the boy was just three months old, I had to go back to work. There wasn't another option open. I had to work to support my family.  I was so angry.  I was so angry because I had to go back to work at a job I didn't like. I was so angry that I couldn't have what I wanted: to be a nursing, happy, stay-at-home mom.   Working, leaving your baby in daycare, pumping your milk out however many times during the day, plus the endless packing, cleaning, gathering, assembling, travelling that gets added into the day is INSANE.  But, you know what? Fuck you, world. So, I fought stubbornly for my right to breast-feed.  I forced myself into painful pumping prison so that I could at least be in control of something that I'd envisioned for my son and for myself.  I did that until Stef was 10 months old, and then my milk supply tanked in spite of my best efforts to keep it going with lactation teas and herbs.  The doctor said is was stress. GO FIGURE.  I was defeated by my own body and I switched to formula.

These bottles remind me of everything I went through two years ago.  They remind me of what I was feeling: anger, powerlessness, and jealousy.  They make me wonder if I made my decision to breastfeed more about me than about my kid.  That's where I get a little confused.  While no one can say my decision was bad for my baby, I certainly wasn't acting selflessly.  I don't know.

In a week or so, I'll have processed these feelings, let them go, and  I will give my husband my consent to throw them away.  But for now, I want to remind myself of that time and what I went though.  There may be some value in taking stock.