Good Life Dietitians welcome guest blogger Claire Pienaar! She is the lovely mother to 3 month old Micah, her first baby. Read her blog, Complete Clarity for more...
Enjoy her story with us!
Being a breastfeeding mother is not for the faint hearted. Many people applaud the fact that women today still choose to breastfeed. I have been blessed by being able to breastfeed and I am fully aware that it is not a reality for some mothers due to health-related reasons, but after 7 weeks as a milk maker, I completely understand why women choose to use formula. It’s not messy, it frees up mommy’s time as anyone can pop the bottle into the young suckling’s mouth, and it’s convenient. It’s obviously a very personal choice, and I refrain from judging anyone who chooses a different path to me, but here’s my story…
I am not disciplined enough to formula feed – the sterilisation process intimidates me, as I am not sure my kitchen will EVER be clean enough to house a new-born’s nutrition. I never really gave the process much thought, as I assumed I’d be able to breastfeed with ease. With ease – puh! Rooky mistake. There’s nothing easy about the process.
The first week, after the birth of said suckling, is a hellish experience. Suffice it to say, when you’re walking around with cannonballs on the exterior of your ribcage that can only find soothing from cold cabbage leaves, you know you’re in for a bumpy ride. No amount of oxytocin is going to allow me to forget that part of motherhood in a hurry. As a first time mother, I thought I was dying during this period– so did my husband. In tears and on the edge of reason, we remembered that I have an aunt in the UK who, although now retired, was a midwife for 40-odd years. Within minutes we had her on skype, and I thought that she’d give me some “quick-fix” and we’d all live happily ever after. But that was not to be. Instead, we had the now ravenous and wailing suckling on the cannonball, me with my shirt off and Hubbaroo moving frantically with the laptop to get the whole sordid process on camera for my aunt who kept on repeating “I wish I was there to help” – not sure if she meant with the breastfeeding or the camera! Looking back on the ordeal, one could have made a killing on the internet if we had muted the screaming and replaced some sultry music. I digress…
Aunty midwife must have said “persevere” about 50 times during that hour and forty-five minute experience. And it’s the word that has stuck in my brain for good reason. Once the cannonballs had shrunk down to the size of melons, I figured that we were “good to go” with this part of motherhood – I was ready to tick it off the proverbial to-do-list and move on to the next challenge in the gauntlet. Again, I was wrong. Between milk coming out as if through an automated sprinkler, and getting my appendages caught in those damned nursing bras one-too-many times, I thought the worst was over. I have now mastered the art of dressing myself without too much hindrance from the mammary gland department.
The suckling, however, has had to bare the brunt of this new-found secretory organ that belongs to mommy. She’s had milk sprayed into her eyes instead of her mouth on more than one occasion. Luckily she has a sweet disposition and has not taken too much offence, although she has unwittingly played her own version of pay-back. The suckling recurrently plays a game I fondly call “nipple quest”. This is when, despite having the tool ready at her disposal, she will dodge the area at all costs, creating a pool of the nutritious extract all over mommy’s clothing. She then lunges forward, unashamedly looking like a vulture, and proceeds to take a giant slurp for all mankind. This results in an unsavoury display of spluttering, coughing, choking, together with her little arms flailing as if calling for a rescue team. It’s nothing short of a feeding frenzy!
I am keeping positive with this little trial of calcium-enriched terror. I assume that eventually she’ll make it look as easy as the other babies do who are unashamedly nursed – without covering – in restaurants and other public places.
Even though I paint a milk-stained picture, I am not ready to throw in the already saturated towel. I know that for my little baby, breast milk is best. It keeps me up at night when bottle feeding mommies can let daddies take a shift, it keeps me messy when I am used to being clean, it gives my child exactly what her growing body needs; it has no additives, preservatives, heavy metals or excess fats and carbs.
Breastfeeding comes with its own brand of madness, but it’s definitely a trial I am willing to conquer – one feed at a time.
I am not disciplined enough to formula feed – the sterilisation process intimidates me, as I am not sure my kitchen will EVER be clean enough to house a new-born’s nutrition. I never really gave the process much thought, as I assumed I’d be able to breastfeed with ease. With ease – puh! Rooky mistake. There’s nothing easy about the process.
The first week, after the birth of said suckling, is a hellish experience. Suffice it to say, when you’re walking around with cannonballs on the exterior of your ribcage that can only find soothing from cold cabbage leaves, you know you’re in for a bumpy ride. No amount of oxytocin is going to allow me to forget that part of motherhood in a hurry. As a first time mother, I thought I was dying during this period– so did my husband. In tears and on the edge of reason, we remembered that I have an aunt in the UK who, although now retired, was a midwife for 40-odd years. Within minutes we had her on skype, and I thought that she’d give me some “quick-fix” and we’d all live happily ever after. But that was not to be. Instead, we had the now ravenous and wailing suckling on the cannonball, me with my shirt off and Hubbaroo moving frantically with the laptop to get the whole sordid process on camera for my aunt who kept on repeating “I wish I was there to help” – not sure if she meant with the breastfeeding or the camera! Looking back on the ordeal, one could have made a killing on the internet if we had muted the screaming and replaced some sultry music. I digress…
Aunty midwife must have said “persevere” about 50 times during that hour and forty-five minute experience. And it’s the word that has stuck in my brain for good reason. Once the cannonballs had shrunk down to the size of melons, I figured that we were “good to go” with this part of motherhood – I was ready to tick it off the proverbial to-do-list and move on to the next challenge in the gauntlet. Again, I was wrong. Between milk coming out as if through an automated sprinkler, and getting my appendages caught in those damned nursing bras one-too-many times, I thought the worst was over. I have now mastered the art of dressing myself without too much hindrance from the mammary gland department.
The suckling, however, has had to bare the brunt of this new-found secretory organ that belongs to mommy. She’s had milk sprayed into her eyes instead of her mouth on more than one occasion. Luckily she has a sweet disposition and has not taken too much offence, although she has unwittingly played her own version of pay-back. The suckling recurrently plays a game I fondly call “nipple quest”. This is when, despite having the tool ready at her disposal, she will dodge the area at all costs, creating a pool of the nutritious extract all over mommy’s clothing. She then lunges forward, unashamedly looking like a vulture, and proceeds to take a giant slurp for all mankind. This results in an unsavoury display of spluttering, coughing, choking, together with her little arms flailing as if calling for a rescue team. It’s nothing short of a feeding frenzy!
I am keeping positive with this little trial of calcium-enriched terror. I assume that eventually she’ll make it look as easy as the other babies do who are unashamedly nursed – without covering – in restaurants and other public places.
Even though I paint a milk-stained picture, I am not ready to throw in the already saturated towel. I know that for my little baby, breast milk is best. It keeps me up at night when bottle feeding mommies can let daddies take a shift, it keeps me messy when I am used to being clean, it gives my child exactly what her growing body needs; it has no additives, preservatives, heavy metals or excess fats and carbs.
Breastfeeding comes with its own brand of madness, but it’s definitely a trial I am willing to conquer – one feed at a time.
No comments:
Post a Comment