One Thursday Night

by Kathy Parker

I admit it. I formula-fed my eldest son. I had planned on breastfeeding before I ever saw that little plus sign on the pregnancy test. I relished thoughts of cradling my son in my arms and smiling down at him as he nursed.

I read everything in the "What to Expect When You're Expecting" book and thought that I was prepared. I wasn't. The nurse in the delivery room couldn't get him to latch on correctly. Apparently he'd been sucking his tongue in utero and was not ready to give up that activity. She said he'd nurse like a champ once he stopped sucking his tongue.

After several attempts at trying to get him to nurse, I buzzed the nurses for help. Dylan was born on a Sunday, so there were no Lactation Consultants available. The nurses there had no idea how to get him to latch on. After many hours of tears and frustration from trying to feed my hungry little boy and failing, I gave in and gave him a bottle. He gulped it down like it was going out of style.

I made other attempts during our stay in the hospital. Dylan would just turn his head and cry whenever he would even see my breast. I told myself that I would call La Leche League (LLL) and get some help and that I would eventually breastfeed my son. LLL never returned my calls.

My milk came in on the third day, as scheduled, and I tried again. I figured, now that I have something for him to eat, he'll want to nurse. Still he cried when I tried to bring him to my breast.

I sent hubby off to buy a breast pump, determined to give my son breastmilk. He came home with a cheap Gerber handpump. I ran a warm bath, put warm washcloths on my breasts, and then pumped as well as I could. I think the tears I cried amounted to more than the milk I pumped, but any amount was better than nothing, right?

Eventually I stopped. I was becoming a total wreck. My nipples were sore, Dylan seemed to be afraid of my breasts, and I was wiped out from lack of sleep. I vowed that I would be successful at breastfeeding my next child, and then I packed the pump away.

When I learned I was expecting again, I scoured the Internet. There was no way I was going to be a failure at breastfeeding again. I found several message boards with many women who were supportive and helped guide me to other resources. This time I would be giving birth in a civilian hospital.

This time I had the beeper numbers of several lactation consultants. This time I was successful. I always held the hope in the back of my mind that Dylan would watch his little brother nursing and would want to try for himself. Dylan would watch with interest, but then run off to play with his cars.

As Ethan grew, I wondered that my body was nourishing him so well, but then my heart would become heavy as I wished that I could have done this for Dylan. Months passed, and I thought that I had come to grips with my feelings of failure with Dylan. He was an active and intelligent toddler, just learning to speak. Maybe I hadn't been able to breastfeed him, but that didn't make me a bad mommy.

I was nursing Ethan while Dylan lined up his hotwheels. When Ethan was finished, I put him on the floor so he could practice crawling. As soon as Dylan noticed this, he ran over to me and held his arms up. I picked him up, and he laid himself in my arms - the same position Ethan had been in seconds before - and as if he had been doing so all along, he latched on and nursed.

I sat there and just stared at him, trying to hold back tears that had waited a long time to fall. The child I had long ago given up on breastfeeding was now in my arms and nursing. Dylan hasn't really shown much interest in nursing since then. Every now and then when he's hurt or scared, he will climb into my lap and lift up my shirt. He may suckle once or twice, but he mainly just rests his head on my breast. And that's okay. I never fully realized until that night he nursed for the first time how much guilt and sadness I had held onto in my failure.

Sure I was successful with Ethan, but I still felt that I cheated Dylan out of something wonderful. After that night, I was finally able to let go of all the hurt. I was not successful at breastfeeding, but I didn't cheat him. I do my best to be a good mommy, and as long as I love him, that's what really matters.