A Bad Day's Work Is Better Than None At All

One of the things no one ever tells new mothers is that breastfeeding is hard. And when I say hard, I don't mean hard like they just ran out of mocha at Starbucks--I mean hard like you just ran a marathon and now you have to run another WITHOUT STOPPING. You think that the baby will arrive and you will bare your breast and things will just work out. Baby will latch on and you will look down at his furry little head with elation and ocean-deep love.

It's a lie.

First, you will labor many hours, trying to bring forth this new life that you helped create. It will hurt a lot and you'll probably cry. When baby finally makes his or her entrance, you will be exhausted, starving and--if you're me--recovering from the effects of general anesthesia (thank YOU, emergency c-section). The baby will cry and root around in your chest area, prompting you to offer up you nipple, good intentions at first making up for your lack of experience. Baby will grab the very sensitive tip of your proffered nipple with a force belying its size and suck for all its worth--and you will cry some more. BECAUSE HOLY HELL THAT HURTS. Your husband, who has just stepped out of the room for a moment to use the restroom, will return to your bedside to find you sobbing and naked to the waist, holding an equally distressed baby.

Oh, the tears you'll shed.

Your husband who loves you will run to the nurse's station and bring back a solid, stocky woman named Annette. Annette will grab your breast in exactly the same way you might pick up a tomato at the grocery store--firmly, unabashedly, she does this all the time. She will somehow get the baby to open up his mouth in a way that reminds you of a snake unhinging its jaw--wide. When the baby's mouth is at the crucial angle, she will aggressively jam his face onto your nipple until he seems to choke. You will be overcome with love and gratitude for this Annette, your savior, the only woman you've ever truly loved.

Peace will reign for ten entire minutes while your baby is attached to your breast. You will feel as if you're getting the hang of this. You will cautiously lock eyes with your husband and tentatively smile, even though neither one of you can believe they're going to let you take this baby home. What if you break it? No really, Annette, we can't break it?

Four days later they'll check to make sure you have a car seat and then they will send you home with the smallest, most helpless person you've ever met. You will realize that you have a cat at home that's easily twice the size of your new son, but that realization will pale in comparison to one still to come: when the milk comes in, your boobs will be triple the size of your baby's head. And that swooping, stuffing move that Annette showed you? Between the c-section scar and your own trepidation, you won't be able to figure it out. Your husband will try to help by talking you through it, but this will only piss you off.

You will stick with it anyway, because you're stubborn and apparently have a high pain threshold. SIX WEEKS LATER, you will get into the shower and burst into tears when the water hits your now cracked and bloody nipples. You'll cry and cry and cry, because it hurts, because it was supposed to be easy, because you cannot face the thought of nursing your tiny, dependent baby ever again. You consider switching to formula, but that just makes you cry more. You think of all the pictures of The Madonna you studied in art history and you cannot imagine how she always managed to look so serene with a baby dangling from her body like that. And you think, really Mary? Do you get to have it easy because you're the mother of God? Is this some kind of joke?

In your sleep-deprived fog, you'll remember that there's a lactation consultant at the hospital where your son was born, and you'll call her in desperation. You have to leave a message because she doesn't answer her phone, so you spend an hour or so wringing your hands and fretting--what will she think of you? How come you can't get it right? When she calls you back, she's kind, her voice is soothing, and she invites you to come to her office so she can find out what's going on.

It turns out that lactation consultants are better than chocolate cake. She's an older woman, confident in her mothering skills and adept at handling the younger mothers of new babies. She has you take off your shirt and then makes you and your son comfortable with pillows. She does the nurse's trick again, but slower, and then she makes you try, so she can make sure you've got it. She explains the mechanics of nursing and weighs your baby before and after feeding, so you can see the proof that you--yes YOU--are producing enough milk for your baby. She gently reminds you that you have all the tools you need for this, and that you can do it. You are the mother of this child, and that's all he needs. For the first time in six weeks, you allow yourself a deep breath, and you fall ocean-deep in love.