On one hand, it's true what Dr. Spock said, that new parents know more than they think they do. On the other hand, there are some things about parenting that have to be learned, that instinct just doesn't take care of. You'd think that breastfeeding would be instinctual, since eating is, y'know, crucial to survival and all. Instead, breastfeeding turns out to be surprisingly difficult for most mothers and babies to learn. I really get, now, why a reasonable mother who knows all about the superiority of breastmilk might resort to formula feeding. But then, I'm the stubborn woman who didn't want to give up on an old-fashioned birth even after 34 hours of labor.
It's also true, what my mother has said for years, that motherhood turns breasts into just one more kind of baby gear, as utilitarian as a car safety seat or a stroller. "You'll think of them as baby gear," she said, "or udders, depending on the day. You'll never see cows the same way again."
Gareth is, in almost all ways, an easy baby. Guess what the exception is. Although my son and I are both within our respective ranges of normal, we have, shall we say, a hardware incompatibility between the structure of his mouth and the structure of my breasts. We spent many hours of our four recuperative days in the hospital in the most ridiculous tableau: I would try to wrangle my bosom while Dan tried to wrangle an increasingly hungry and anxious newborn, the hospital's lactation consultant tried to function as an interface between the two, and my mother stood by with a bottle of pumped breastmilk and a plastic spoon, with which we would periodically try to calm the baby down enough to try again to get him latched on. Ever tried to feed a frantic two-day-old baby with a spoon? If you want your clothes to look like a Jackson Pollock painting, it might be an activity to try. Otherwise, I can't recommend it.
Meanwhile, I kept up a cajoling monologue, trying to encourage Gareth to learn to eat. Cajoling monologues directed at newborns can get pretty goofy. "Who is Gareth's moo cow?" I found myself saying. "Mommy is! Mommy is Gareth's moo cow!"
Dan thought perhaps this was a sign of postpartum depression, until my sister called and left messages that consisted entirely of mooing. Pru married the scion of a Nebraska cattle ranching dynasty, so she's had many opportunities to perfect her heifer imitation. When my mother started greeting me by lowing like a Holstein, Dan finally caught on that he'd blundered into a family in-joke. "But I can't call you a moo cow," he said. "I just can't. You have a Ph.D., for chrissakes. You should at least be Dr. Moo Cow." So that's become one of his pet names for me. As in, when the baby is starting to fuss with hunger, "Dr. Moo Cow, you're late for your lecture."
It's also true, what my mother has said for years, that motherhood turns breasts into just one more kind of baby gear, as utilitarian as a car safety seat or a stroller. "You'll think of them as baby gear," she said, "or udders, depending on the day. You'll never see cows the same way again."
Gareth is, in almost all ways, an easy baby. Guess what the exception is. Although my son and I are both within our respective ranges of normal, we have, shall we say, a hardware incompatibility between the structure of his mouth and the structure of my breasts. We spent many hours of our four recuperative days in the hospital in the most ridiculous tableau: I would try to wrangle my bosom while Dan tried to wrangle an increasingly hungry and anxious newborn, the hospital's lactation consultant tried to function as an interface between the two, and my mother stood by with a bottle of pumped breastmilk and a plastic spoon, with which we would periodically try to calm the baby down enough to try again to get him latched on. Ever tried to feed a frantic two-day-old baby with a spoon? If you want your clothes to look like a Jackson Pollock painting, it might be an activity to try. Otherwise, I can't recommend it.
Meanwhile, I kept up a cajoling monologue, trying to encourage Gareth to learn to eat. Cajoling monologues directed at newborns can get pretty goofy. "Who is Gareth's moo cow?" I found myself saying. "Mommy is! Mommy is Gareth's moo cow!"
Dan thought perhaps this was a sign of postpartum depression, until my sister called and left messages that consisted entirely of mooing. Pru married the scion of a Nebraska cattle ranching dynasty, so she's had many opportunities to perfect her heifer imitation. When my mother started greeting me by lowing like a Holstein, Dan finally caught on that he'd blundered into a family in-joke. "But I can't call you a moo cow," he said. "I just can't. You have a Ph.D., for chrissakes. You should at least be Dr. Moo Cow." So that's become one of his pet names for me. As in, when the baby is starting to fuss with hunger, "Dr. Moo Cow, you're late for your lecture."
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Date: 2007-11-27 03:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-27 04:00 am (UTC)Here's hoping for a quick adjustment...
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Date: 2007-11-27 06:09 am (UTC)It took at least a week for Will to get the hang of it. Once he did, he chomped my nipples raw. Lanolin gel will become your friend.
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Date: 2007-11-27 07:15 am (UTC)I'm glad that your family is supportive of your cow-ness (I never really felt the cow thing, tho' I get the analogy) and that you are sticking out the breastfeeding even though it is hard.
You rock.
This too shall pass.
I miss you guys!
*snort*
Date: 2007-11-27 09:52 am (UTC)makes me think of (not at all related) trying to explain mooing at cows while driving to Sabrina LOL
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Date: 2007-11-27 11:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-27 11:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-27 12:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-27 03:02 pm (UTC)It's hard, but so worth all the effort. Hugs for Dr. Moo Cow and Gareth-Calfling.
luci had such issues that......
Date: 2007-11-27 04:57 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-27 05:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-27 05:41 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-27 07:19 pm (UTC)Like you, my breasts and F's mouth had a mismatch. It balanced out, though.
It was funny, he FINALLY really latched on while M drove the last gramma to the airport. Really, they weren't even there yet. But the last gram left, and F got down to business.
Supposedly it's easier with the next one(s). Only one person has a learning curve, then.
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Date: 2007-11-27 07:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-11-27 07:49 pm (UTC)Reminds me of my nephew - they got to the age where they were doing farm animal sounds, and my Mom was showing me and then I got in the game and said:
"What sound do cows make?"
"NO!"
"Cows say Moo"
"No. I don't like cows."
Turns out he's not a big fan of cows. *LOL*
Good Luck Dr. Mooooooooooooo
I feel ya
Date: 2007-11-27 11:42 pm (UTC)Sometimes well-meaning family members just get in the way. Lactation consultant did help though.
My advice is that if you can get through the first two weeks, you can nurse that baby for his first two years... (if such is your desire). It'll get to be very easy, the sore breasts get toughened up. Eventually you will be able to do it standing on your head (or, my personal favorite: dead asleep in the middle of the night).
Re: I feel ya
Date: 2007-11-27 11:43 pm (UTC)I don't have a livejournal account. That was me (Anne) your once-upon-a-time Vassar roomie.
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Date: 2007-11-28 01:46 am (UTC)Hang in there!
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Date: 2007-11-28 05:38 am (UTC)But your sister's moo-ing phone messages cracked me up. :)
We coerced a couple of new acquaintances here in WA into playing Catan last weekend, and got them hooked. I gave one of them a cup of tea in the Shakespearian insult mug, with fond memories of you working your way through the entire mug of insults in a particularly heated Catan evening. heh heh.
E-I-E-I MOO! (regards from Andrew)
Date: 2007-12-03 06:35 am (UTC)I do feel for you, Dr. Moo Cow. Best of luck on the continuing struggle. I felt like a cow on an industrial farm being hooked up to the double breast pump for 3 months. But I expect it will get easier. Some of the La Leche folks said it was easiest to nurse when the baby was starting to get hungry but not starving yet (but good luck catching that moment). Also, feeding a toddler from a spoon is an entirely different, but still messy experience (he only cooperates if it is something he _wants_ which is usually whatever I am eating or drinking).