From Bottle Feeder to Nursling

by Diana Liow

What is it about a newborn child that casts your fatigue away, and makes you smile through tears of pain? So it was that Nicholas, born after five hours of intense contractions and backaches (not to mention, of course, the yelling and groaning), lay quietly beside me as I stared into his tiny face in awe.

Wow! Was the first word I could consciously form. Wow. Suddenly, I was no longer a whale with a bun in the oven. I had crossed over from being simply a daughter, a wife, into the exalted ranks of motherhood. My husband and I were no longer just a couple; we were now a family. This little wrinkled doll-like creature was our child.

Of course, I'll always remember that whole experience. I could never forget the intense grinding of the womb seeking to expel that which it had held dear for nearly a year, or watching the seconds crawl past in those excruciating hours (though it felt more like days) waiting for the baby to descend the birth canal.

In the throes of birthing, strange thoughts go through your mind. I remember incongruously thinking about those women who had so many babies, one after the other, year after year (they knew about the pain, how could they put themselves through it?) and how I was glad that the ultrasound had shown my baby to be a boy (I never want my daughter to go through this!)

Remarkably, my most vivid recollection of the whole process is the feeling of my baby as he slipped out of my body at the break of dawn. After that, there was peace. This is love, I thought, all memories of the barely recent struggle all but stripped from me. I held the tiny bundle close and encouraged my little son to suckle.

He, however, stuck up his nose, shut his eyes and turned his face away. Nurse? His expression told me. I need my sleep! At that point, I wholly agreed with him. I hadn't slept a wink all night, either.

When you see people on TV with their new babies, they invariably glow angelically with contentment and seem to deftly fit themselves into their new parenthood with pizzazz and expertise. "It's easy", their images project, "and any dummy knows how to give birth, take care of kids, make a baby latch on to the breast without any nipple pain, engorgement problems, etc, etc, etc.."

Well, this dummy was absent the day they gave out the instruction sheets in kindergarten, or primary school, or whatever. I couldn't make my baby take my nipple and nurse - here was a child who had absolutely no desire to suckle! Call the press! Nobody told me that newborns aren't born hungry - you mean to tell me he doesn't want a big nipple shoved in his mouth after he's only been fed through the navel in his entire life?

For fear of dehydration, we resorted to the bottle for feeds of water, then when he still didn't want anything to do with my breast, I finally consented to letting him have formula.

Imagine my feelings of inadequacy and dejection. How could this kid prefer to have broken-down, re-engineered bovine juice over what mother nature prescribed as the perfect food for human babies?

Okay, so there wasn't so much as a drop of colostrum to be had, though I had squeezed and squashed my breast sore (a state in which, much to my ignorance, it was going to remain in for the next four months or so); but that didn't mean I was going to hand my baby over to the world of plastic bottles and latex nipples. The fight wasn't over yet.

So determined was I to breastfeed my son that I hadn't even purchased so much as a baby bottle or a can of formula, something I had to remedy very quickly and unhappily. I had instead splurged on an expensive battery-operated breast pump, and so I decided to put it to good use.

I'd sit on my bed and pump away for hours, and was so happy the first time I got a few drops that I tried to put the (then sleeping) baby on to suckle right away. He of course protested. The traitor had by then succumbed to the lure of easy sucking and hot formula on demand.

So, the pump and I became best friends. Every naptime we'd abscond together to the bedroom where I'd do my very best to pretend he was my baby. I tried using my imagination to trick my breasts into releasing the great gushes of milk that were supposedly building up in there. It became obvious to me after a week of so that I wasn't going to be subject to the engorgement many mothers experience, because hours and hours of pumping would only produce laughably small drips.

It wasn't easy, but eventually I started to build up a little trickle here and there, which I'd add into my baby's bottle. What with having to make formula on a two-hourly basis, and spending the remainder of the time trying to coax whatever measly amount of milk I could from my stingy mammary glands, I quickly got very exhausted and run down.

Forget it, my oh-so-encouraging husband said. Give in. You've tried your best to breastfeed, so don't worry about it. It just wasn't meant to be.

Wasn't meant to be? Says who? The formula is what wasn't meant to be! Mothers for countless generations have nursed their babes and not one person in the entire history of mankind can say with conviction that formula is best for babies.

I was even more determined than before to give my baby breast milk, and none of this pumping business either. He'd have to take it straight from the source.

I tried the "make-him-so-hungry-he'll-take-anything" method, but I melted when he cried with hunger. I stuffed my nipple in his mouth after he'd fallen asleep - he woke up choking on my flesh. I tried smearing my breast with formula - he'd just look at me scornfully. I'd offer my breast first at feeding times. Each time he'd suck tentatively for a while then turn away when nothing seemed to come out.

I kept pumping and the milk finally began to come in in amounts sufficient for me to replace his formula with. The battle was half won. The milk was finally there, but how was I to get him to suckle at the breast?

Eventually it was a nipple shield that did it. I figured Nicholas had gotten used to the latex feel and taste, and I used my pump to draw out some milk into the shield so it released milk as rapidly as a bottle. When he started suckling and remained suckling, I was so happy I shed tears of joy. After almost three weeks, we finally managed an actual session of breastfeeding!

After that, I breastfed all the time. Gradually he came to accept that milk could and did come out of my breast and I put away the nipple shields with relief.

Nicholas discovered the joy of nursing for hours on end; I discovered the not-so-joyful nipple aches and pains. I bore the pain with fortitude born of victory, and thankfully, nursing improved with time.

When he's feeling upset, nursing always comforts him and brings a smile to his face. He won't start his day any other way.

At 16 months, Nicholas is still nursing strong, and I have no intention of stopping him until he is ready. It hasn't been easy being the full-time mother of this bright, extremely active and inquisitive boy, but I feel the nursing relationship has helped. During the few mild illnesses he has had, constant and frequent nursing has helped to keep him hydrated and nourished. When he wakes in the middle of the night, a quick 'nibble' puts him straight back into deep slumber. And the joy that he exhibits when I allow him to breastfeed on demand makes it all worthwhile.