Sensationalized breastfeeding
How it *feels* to nurse a baby
Hello from the other side of an actual hell weekend. Woof. Suffice it to say, that was a 48-hours we will not be repeating, that included multiple baby and toddler illnesses, a family tragedy, and a trip to urgent care to *just* name a few. If I were to look very far off on the horizon towards a distant bright side, I might say something like “well, now I know how much stronger I am than I thought!” And that strength is going to have to carry me through the next few days of solo parenting 2 babies under 2. Pity party aside, this note is really just to say, I meant to publish on Friday, then Saturday, then Sunday, and the shit just kept hitting the fan and it didn’t happen. Consistency be damned when you’re this deep in the motherhood trenches.
Earlier this Last week, I published the first piece in a series I’ll be writing on my experiences feeding babies: a long account aimed normalizing some of the struggle with latching a baby onto the boob, and sharing some risks and challenges that come with pumping. FWIW, in my head today’s post doesn’t count as part of the series. Rather, it’s meant as more of an interlude- a mixture of visuals and thoughts and feelings that paint a picture of what it’s physically and mentally like to nurse my baby daughter, right now, by way of my very visual and metaphor-addled brain. If you haven’t ever latched a baby or are wondering what it feels like to breastfeed, here’s hoping this helps.
Breastfeeding, for those who partake, is almost ceaselessly on the mind, as it’s always right around the corner.
In my part, my boobs are the first thing I think about when I wake and it’s often a toss up whether baby or boobs served as my alarm clock. This is especially true if baby girl has slept a long stretch and my boobs are full.
When they’re full, they feel heavy and uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable like when you have to pee and you feel that sort of downward pull or inner alarm. More uncomfortable like you might puke, but you’re not sure. Or like you’re gearing up to sprint in a race and you have a little pent up energy sitting in your belly. Full breasts feel a little bit glowy, emanating an energy that needs releasing. Like your battery has been fully charged and it’s time to GO. In our house, my husband changes baby girl’s diapers if he’s around, then hands her off for me to feed. When my breasts are full, those seconds and minutes (let’s be real, dads can be so slow at diaper changes) feel unending. They make my tongue feel sharp and quick to lash out, like a hissing snake, demanding “can you BE any slower?”
Emptying them is the greatest relief.
I mentally and sometimes verbally thank my little one for doing her job. I think, “you’re the only one that can help right now.” And she always comes to the rescue, getting out just enough to reduce the tension. Even when I think there’s no way she can drink enough to get rid of the engorgement, she does. The love and connection I feel with her as she kicks her feet, snaps my bra strap, and the settles into a calm rhythm is so soft and pure, while intense and aching.
That freshly empty sensation is one I would liken to the feeling right after finally letting out that 10/10 pee you held for hours. It’s the feeling of washing your face with fresh, cool water and feeling so much more awake and ready to start your day. It’s a nice long intentional breath that delivers a delicious batch of fresh oxygen to your brain and makes you feel like anything is possible. The room gets brighter. The coffee tastes better.
There’s a flip side to being empty, however. Towards the end of the day, when baby wants more, empty breasts feel quite different. Cluster feeding happens in the evenings as babies attempt to fill their bellies before bed; this is an instinct that helps them sleep through long stretches at night. Empty-ish breasts and a hungry baby are a draining combination. Latching onto empty breasts feels like writing a high school essay in a blue book with a mechanical pencil that’s running out of lead. Performance anxiety mixed with running on fumes. It feels like you should have drunk more water and eaten more food but you were holding the baby and there was nothing easy and the day just slipped away. It feels like you’re ready for bed, but there’s still a sink full of dirty dishes to do and they can’t wait til morning. It feels like trying to inflate a kiddie pool with just the air in your lungs and not even so much as a hand pump.
In my own body, I’m not sure if or how much milk comes out when I feel like this. Am I just acting as a pacifier? Somehow, baby girl still manages to spit up after these short and unsatisfying feedings. She’ll cry for more, then burp and act satisfied, all in the span of half a minute.
In my opinion, the perfect feed is the second or third of the day, after I’ve had a good breakfast and plenty to drink. There’s no urgency or exhaustion and baby girl eats for just long enough to get nice and full while not sucking me absolutely dry. I’d liken these mid-day feeds to the feeling of sitting down to read your morning news or maybe do the Wordle. There’s no huge rush and no big emotions, just the comfort and quiet of a ritual.
In the grander scheme of things, nursing baby girl has always felt sweet and fresh and ever changing. There is no stasis with babies. Right now, girlfriend is getting big! She’s heavier to lift and to hold cross-cradle on a bed pillow to feed. She’s distracted by the patterns on the sheets, the ties on my hoodie, the sounds of the next room, or just the tip of her own nose; that distraction causes her to un- and re-latch about 10 times per feed. At some points in the day she just seems deeply uninterested in the actual milk and calories that come from eating, although she will always cuddle in for comfort. The world is opening up to her, expanding far beyond the scent and softness of her mom’s chest. It’s wonderful to watch her expand and engage with more things and people and spaces. And, in equal measure, it’s crushing to feel her drift away, even a small amount, from the closeness of the little corner we made, just us, in between her belly and mine.