Dry

There is pus caked on my nipple right now. 

Seriously.

They say to look for blue lines emanating from an infection site, but that would be hard to identify on my pointlessly veiny boobs. Meanwhile, the perky girls are now swollen girls and soon will become droopy girls, all for nothing.

I can't breastfeed. 

Before I had Dragon, I thought new moms should not get so upset over breastfeeding trouble. On the forums and blogs, women would discuss formula-feeding with the kind of guilt I would only feel if I were to get someone else fired for my mistake, or hit a person with my car.

I figured it was because breastfeeding is a consuming task, by far the No. 1 agenda item in a new mom's life. It would feel really awful to commit the majority of your time and energy to a single activity only to have it fail. From the perspective of a balanced life, switching from breast milk to formula is not worth anguish. But life with a newborn is not a balanced life. That's probably why these women were so upset.

Turns out I was right. But that didn't make me feel any better.

We thought breastfeeding was going fine. In the hospital, all of the nurses were impressed by Dragon's latch and obvious interest in suckling (she was born with a blister on her wrist, probably from practicing in utero, they said). It took five days for my milk to start dripping — not a good start for a baby with jaundice — but eventually I squeezed out something white. Dragon's nursing got drowsy as the minutes passed, but the books said that was just some babies' style. 

The fucking books. "Oh, every woman can produce enough milk for her baby. If it doesn't work out, you did something wrong." They'll never tell you that it hurts like hell, that you will never sleep or leave your house (notably, measures that might remedy or prevent postpartum depression), or that your supply could be crippled if your baby spends one day sick.

It looks like jaundice was our stumbling block. Dragon was taken away for treatment on day 2 and brought back only for feedings when she got fussy. I later was told that Dragon likely was sleeping though hunger and the jaundice left her too pooped to nurse aggressively. My boobs interpreted that as low demand and responded with low supply.

Lethargy drove shortage drove lethargy, and things never bounced back. Not that I had any way of knowing this. Dragon didn't act hungry, she acted mellow. I only called the lactation consultant because I had a crack on my nipple and needed to fix Dragon's latch. The consultant noticed Dragon wasn't swallowing, so we got out the breast pump to see what I had.

I couldn't pump enough milk to cover the bottom of a bottle.

I started feeding formula through thin piping taped to my boob for Dragon to suck out while "breastfeeding," and pumping the opposite boob at the same time. With the pump motor whirring, tubes coming and going over the baby's head and my boob sucked into a plastic funnel, we looked like a mad science experiment. Then the formula tube screwed with Dragon's latch, and my nipples got chewed to shit.

So, great. First my body couldn't have the baby; she had to be cut out of me. Then I couldn't change her diapers or bathe her or dress her or learn to take care of her because I was stuck in recovery after the C-section. All I could do was feed her, and now it turns out I wasn't even doing that.

I never thought I would be one to sentimentalize such things. These are problems with good, modern solutions. But in my heart, all I wanted was to still be pregnant because back then it actually felt like Dragon was mine and I was taking care of her. Suddenly I had become nothing but a big, fat, malfunctioning blob who happens to live with a baby.

For a couple of days I cried more than Dragon.

Since then I've talked to multiple friends who went through similar crises. That made me feel less like a dried-up old lady. I retired the formula tube, which means fewer tears. Now I'm just pumping and serving a little bit of breast milk on the side of formula. Dragon actually looks at my face now rather than fussing and rooting around my shirt every time I hold her. Craig is back at work, so I am in charge of Dragon all day. I feel less useless. 

At Dragon's doctor appointment today (15 days), she still weighed less than her birth weight. The pediatrician said to dump formula into Dragon, as much as she'll take. Doc also urged me to think about how much sleep and sanity I'm willing to sacrifice for pumping. 

I don't know what the balance will be, but at least I'm back to a point where balance interests me.