I wish I had been better prepared for the realities of nursing
By Michelle Cyca
@michellecyca
Before my baby was born last summer, many people asked in a casual, conversational way, “Are you planning to breastfeed?” I don’t know why this is considered an appropriate line of inquiry, but I answered it all the same: of course I did. At least, I hoped I’d be able to. I’d never put my breasts to work for anything more arduous than getting a free drink or two in university, and I wasn’t sure they’d be up to the task.
Breastfeeding is one of the first tests of a new parent. Moments after your baby is born, they are laid on your chest so you can attempt to nurse them; during your hospital stay, a nurse or lactation consultant may drop by to give you pointers and encouragement. Within a few days, your milk “comes in,” turning your boobs into shiny rock-hard orbs that are surprisingly pornographic. By then you may already have a nipple injury from trying to get your brand-new infant to successfully latch; in my prenatal class we learned the “cobra strike” maneuver, waiting until the baby opens their mouth wide before you swiftly cram their face into your breast. I did the cobra strike a dozen times a day, trying to get it right. All the same, by the second day I had a darkening bruise and a bloody stain on my nursing bra.
Breastfeeding gets amazing PR. I read countless articles, brochures, blog posts and parenting books that listed the innumerable benefits of breastfeeding for both my baby and myself, with the occasional scant mention of “discomfort” you might experience while adjusting. And the rapturous praise doesn’t come exclusively from the kind of crunchy, earth-mama sources you’d expect. Health Canada also extols the benefits for mothers and infants, including a “special emotional bond,” and encourages nursing for two years. “The longer you breastfeed, the greater the health benefits for you and your baby,” according to Ontario’s prenatal guidelines .
None of these sources mention how exhausting, painful and tedious it can be. Health Canada notes that it takes up to six weeks to “adjust.” I naively imagined that adjustment might be awkward: fumbling to get the baby latched, propping her up with special nursing pillows. But I didn’t expect weeks of pain. For myself and many other breastfeeding parents I know, the early weeks are agonizing, including cracked nipples, clogged ducts, stabbing pain with every latch. One in five women will experience mastitis, an excruciating, feverish infection caused by milk trapped in the breast that is most common in the weeks after delivery. If you are recovering from a difficult vaginal birth or a caesarean, there is even more pain, with recommended nursing positions for preventing your baby from kicking your incision.
Meanwhile, you are more exhausted than you have ever been in your life. Your newborn needs to eat every two or three hours, which means you are awake all day and all night with them. I had a very easy recovery, despite a difficult birth, and a lot of help from my partner, parents and in-laws. I had as much support and good fortune as it was possible for a new mother to have, and I still found myself crying most nights at 4am, wondering if I would ever feel rested and pain-free again. No matter how much help you have, or how progressive and feminist your male partner is, the 24/7 demands of breastfeeding are up to you. If you have a female partner, you may be able to co-breastfeed, which sounds to me like the most ideal parenting arrangement.
Eventually your breasts do adjust, for the most part. After a few months, I was no longer leaking breast milk constantly (a fun party trick) or experiencing searing nipple pain. Breastfeeding was mostly a neutral if time-consuming activity. But when my baby was six months old, I started getting a shooting pain in my right breast that started each morning and lasted until evening. I saw a doctor who diagnosed it as thrush, and prescribed me a cream generally used to treat ringworm and athlete’s foot. I thought about how much fun my boobs and I used to have together as I dutifully smeared them with antifungal cream twice a day, taking care to wash off the residue a few hours later so my baby could nurse safely. A week later, still feeling as though a ghost was stabbing me in the nipple all day long, I went to an urgent care clinic and saw a different doctor. “It’s not thrush,” this one said, “And it’s not mastitis. It’s a clogged duct. I know it’s very painful, but the only thing you can do to fix it is nurse as often as possible.” I explained that I was already nursing constantly, and asked if maybe I should wean my baby, hoping that if the milk factory closed then the pain would pack up and go home. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said. “We recommend breastfeeding for as long as possible.” I went home to my hungry baby, dejected, and nursed her through the pain.
We do breastfeeding parents a disserve with these upbeat, sweeping recommendations (Nurse on demand! Hang in there, it’s worth it!) that fail to acknowledge the incredible demands that accompany them: pain, exhaustion, limitations on your time, your diet, your ability to work or travel. I heard a lot before my baby was born about how great breast milk was— a perfect food, always available, cost-effective. I didn’t notice the logic underlying these claims: my breastmilk is a perfect food provided I regulate what I put in my body (like alcohol and medication); it’s always available because I am expected to be always available; it’s cost-effective because my time is considered a free and limitless resource, unlike formula. And never mind that many of the purported benefits of breastfeeding disappear once you adjust for the fact that women who are able to breastfeed for extended lengths of time have more money, education, and privilege than those who can’t. We treat these claims like indisputable scientific facts when they are mostly traditions, rooted in a cultural norms that expect women to make tremendous sacrifices without complaint.
It makes me angry to think about how little we value women’s time, their labour, their needs and desires. Men are routinely praised for taking a few weeks off from work to care for their infant, but we have entire public health policies that presume women don’t need to sleep for more than a few hours a night, or work outside the home, or take antidepressants. We treat early child care as a science, but so much of it is grounded in cultural norms: that women staying home with their infants is an unqualified good; that any sacrifices that provide even a tiny benefit to the baby are worth it no matter the cost to mothers; that suffering is a normal, acceptable part of having a baby.
I would never advise anyone not to breastfeed. It’s a personal choice, and many women have an easier relationship with it than me. Even knowing what I know now, I would still probably do it. I don’t deny that there are benefits: fewer things to buy and clean, an efficient way to stop the baby from crying or get her to take a nap, and unearned social approval. But I wish I had been better prepared for the struggles. I wish resources discussed the costs as well as the benefits, and considered the well-being of mothers as much as infants. I wish they acknowledged what research has found to be true: formula is just fine. If I have a second baby, I’ll buy formula too and let my husband share the late-night shifts.
I’d love to see a study that looks at the outcomes for parents and infants of having non-breastfeeding partners more involved in these grueling early weeks. What would it be like if new parents were encouraged instead to trade night shifts, and each have the opportunity to form a “special emotional bond” while feeding their baby? How would the postpartum period be different if women were not expected to be available 24/7 to their baby, and were encouraged and supported to take time for themselves? Would our parenting relationships be more equitable? These aren’t trivial questions; as many as one in five new mothers experiences clinical depression, and women with male partners still do two-thirds of the childcare.
It’s a cliche that as soon as you have a baby you want to give other new moms advice. But the only thing I want to tell them is this: you’re allowed to take care of yourself. Breast is best only if it works for you, because babies who drink formula are perfectly healthy too. I can’t deny there are many sweet moments in breastfeeding, snuggling my tiny baby close (and praying she doesn’t bite down). But I will always tell women the truth of what those enthusiastic pamphlets refuse to say: sometimes, breastfeeding really sucks.
