by Mimi
A few weeks after Valentine's Day, I knew I was pregnant before I
ever bought the test, I was twenty-nine, and not married.
I had a five year old daughter I adored and she was just
beginning to heal from the aftermath of a nasty divorce. I
wasn't sure I was ready to have another baby just when we had
started enjoying our life alone together, safely away from the
hell we had escaped.
After nearly ten years of marriage, the previous spring I had
told my ex-husband I wanted a divorce. Our home had become
a battleground, and not only was the situation toxic for me, it
was playing havoc with my daughter's life. He flatly
refused, threatened to leave me penniless and take my child away.
After months of pleading, he finally agreed to leave and our
divorce became final near the end of that August.
Several weeks later, my husband I began dating and by the
holidays, I was in love with him. I knew that someday down
the road, I wanted to marry him. However, neither of us was in
any hurry to say "I do" again, as his divorce and mine were both
still fresh in our minds.
On Valentine's Day we spent a romantic evening together. We
went to a quiet restaurant and ate dinner by candlelight and then
went dancing until the wee hours of the morning. I looked
at his face the next morning and thought, "In a year or so, this
is how I want to wake up every morning for the rest of my life."
I had no idea that thought would become a reality just a few
short weeks later.
The test was positive, I was pregnant, and we weren't married.
More importantly, I wasn't really sure at that point if I wanted
another child and even less sure if I did decide to go through
with the pregnancy, if I wanted to get married.
He proposed several days later and on a snowy April afternoon,
with our two daughters as our flower girls, and only my immediate
family present, we pledged our hearts and love to each other.
The reception was small, a few friends toasted us with champagne
and I sipped on sparkling white grape juice.
I loved being pregnant! I was healthy, happy and in my
heart, knew the baby I was carrying was the son my husband hoped
for. We picked out a name, bought little blue sleepers,
predicted whether he would look like his daddy or mommy, and the
months passed by quickly.
Although I had attempted to breastfeed my daughter, I was
terribly disappointed when I was unsuccessful. I was
adamant this time, and dreamed of nothing less than breastfeeding
this child! My husband was excited, his son would have the
very best of everything, including "mommy milk."
My labor, which began early the morning the day before my 30th
birthday, didn't come as any surprise to me. Our baby was
due on Halloween, and I had delivered my daughter just six hours
after her due date, so I fully expected this baby to be born on
October 31st. I labored at home until my contractions were
about two minutes apart, and when my husband began to become a
little frantic that we might not make it to the hospital in time,
we left home with a bag full of blue.
Not quite three hours later, and after an un-medicated birth, the
doctor handed my husband his son. He was beautiful and I
cried as he handed him to me. The cleft lip and cleft
palate didn't lessen our joy at having welcomed a healthy little
boy into the world.
Nurse after nurse told me I'd never be able to breastfeed him,
but I was determined my baby boy would suckle at my breast.
I tried and tried to nurse him, but after several frustrating
attempts, I burst into tears. An angel of a nurse in the
hallway heard me crying and came into my room to see why I was
sobbing. When I told her how important it was for me to
breastfeed my son, she helped me latch him on and within seconds,
he was contentedly nursing. Each time a nurse brought him
to me from the nursery, she'd have a bottle of formula in hand,
and each time I delighted in telling her I didn't need a bottle,
my baby was being breastfed!
Nursing my son wasn't easy. It was messy, because the milk
leaked out of the cleft, but I rolled up bath towels to soak it
up. At times, it seemed as if all I did was nurse, he'd
finish one feeding and within minutes he'd be ready to nurse
again. Sleep was something I remembered from the days
before he was born. Spending along time with my daughter
was limited to a few minutes here and a few minutes there, but
she relished her role as big sister and that made up for the loss
in "mommy time."
Shortly before surgery to repair his cleft lip, I was advised to
stop breastfeeding my son and begin giving him bottles of
formula. Pumping to fill bottles with expressed breast milk
was unheard of then and since I planned to go back to work a few
weeks afterward, I took the advice and began feeding him formula.
It broke my heart to stop nursing him, if I had known then what I
know now, and if message boards like BF.com had existed then, I
would have extended nursed him.
 Although
I only shared a nursing relationship with my son for just a
couple of months, the bond created in that short time remains
strong and he's a strapping twenty-five year old young man about
to finish his degree in Forensic Anthropology. When I look
at him, my heart flutters each time I remember how lucky I am
that a caring nurse heard my cries that afternoon and that I was
able to give him the best start possible in life by breastfeeding
him. My dream did come true!
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