A LETTER TO MY FOREVER DATE WHEN BREASTFEEDING DIDN'T WORK OUT
Dear You,
My most cherished memory is not the moment we met our son together in that hospital room, or debating names every waking minute for two straight days. It's not even the squealing joy of bath time, or the way he buries his face in my chest when he's excited. Though I have made a home for these things, what I cherish most is feeding our squishy three-month old baby at four in the morning, both of us curled into a navy blue chair across from you, half-asleep and lulled by the rhythmic hum of the breast pump.
I know that this is one of your favorite recollections, too, because you've saved pictures of that night in a folder called My Heart. Pictures I didn't resist. Pictures of me without my shirt. You of all people know the incredible peace I had to feel in that moment. How could I have known then that you would need me most in the coming weeks? I confronted my own body dysmorphia in a veritable daze, sleep-deprived and occupied by the warm, snoring little boy in my arms. You confronted yours violently and repeatedly, called yourself broken, cried at spilled droplets of breast milk, vacillated between defeat and determination.
We tried everything. The fenugreek and sunflower seed oil. Milk teas. Special protein powders. Lactation cookies with the impossibly elusive Brewer's yeast. Everything.
But for every effort, the universe pushed back. Our son had a lip tie and tongue tie that effected his latch. He was enormous and insatiable from the start. He's every bit as stubborn as you and me combined. He would scream at least one an hour, sometimes because he couldn't drain your breast and other times because he did and wanted more. So, we got the necessary surgeries and paid out-of-pocket when the insurance company failed us. We pumped to build supply and stockpiled when his appetite waned.
It wasn't enough.
When you decided to quit breastfeeding at three months, I supported you. What else could I do? We were exhausted and neglecting our own health for the sake of your supply, and we still couldn't keep our son full. Three weeks later, your breasts nearly dry, you decided to try again. For days, you pumped almost constantly. Ate cookies and drank smoothies. Took so many pills you smelled like a walking stack of pancakes. Miraculously, you worked your breasts full again. We supplemented, scraped and screamed our way to six months.
This time, we stopped for good.
As I write this, our son is nine months old, still enormous, and thriving. Though you haven't mentioned it recently, I know our battle with breastfeeding haunts you. You're insistent that we have one more baby, and some days I wonder how much of that desire is fueled by your inability to keep our son strictly breastfeed for a year. Nothing I have said or could say will convince you that you were, and are, everything our son has ever needed. So maybe this letter is really for me. Maybe this is a space for me to put words to the moments that silenced me, the moments when the last thing you needed from me is outward indifference.
I am in awe of your ability to nourish our son with your body.
Your body is a magic trick I will never tire of.
You did enough. You are enough.
Watching you fight for every ounce made me want to share my life, and my family, with you.
No matter what life throws at us, I know that you are the most perfect person to raise my children with.
Empathy is not your strong suit; nurturing is. I have never met anyone so determined to be everything for your children.
I will sit with you in grief as quickly as I will stand with you in celebration.
This is an impossible and endless list.
What I really want to say is that I love you. I like you. I'm so glad you're my forever date.
Yours.
