Man. People sure can get bent out of shape about a thing.
Let me just start with my story. Make of it what you will.
Four very short years ago, I was on the brink of becoming a mother. I was so excited to meet my baby boy. I did yoga at least once a week. I read all of the best books on natural/vaginal/intervention-free birth. I had all of my cloth diapers, a few disposable ones (only the eco-friendly ones of course). I had no crib, no changing table, no diaper genie. We knew we'd be co-sleeping. No pacifiers. I had my wraps, a sling, and a soft carrier. I knew I would breastfeed. I was ready.
He was born. But we'll skip that wonderful and exhausting story. Let's get to the point here, shall we?
(For the record, and I've said this a hundred times- the REAL labor begins when you bring the baby home. Just so we're clear.)
I was over the moon. Scared to death. A little worse for wear. My son was perfect. Long, skinny head to long, skinny toes. I was completely immersed in Love.
We did all of the new baby visits. He wasn't gaining weight. And after he passed his meconium, he began losing ounces.
Luckily, we have the great fortune to have a pro-breastfeeding, all-things-in-the-natural-evolutionary-order pediatrician. He was concerned. He asked how often I was breastfeeding. After I told him, he recommended us seeing a lactation consultant, perhaps begin pumping to supplement and increase supply, and return in 2 days. We did all that, got a full list of herbs and supplements to take, and went home.
I nursed my baby. We bought a small hand pump. We got all of the herbs. When we returned to the pediatrician, my son had lost several ounces.
This time, our doctor sent me off into a comfortable nursing room. As advised, we stripped our baby down, got him skin to skin with me, and nursed for about 20 minutes. A nurse came in and weighed him. He weighed about half an ounce more.
The doctor gave me a can of formula. I felt sick. He recommended I nurse 20 minutes, pump 20 minutes on both sides, and after giving baby my pumped milk, follow up with 2oz of formula. I was to do this every 3 hours until our next visit, set for 3 days later.
I hated the formula. I cried and cried as I read the label… most of the ingredients were words longer than the space allowed for. It smelled awful. I hadn't planned on pumping, so we had no bottles. We bought bottles, a special drying rack, a specific bottle-cleaning brush. Oh, yeah, and we were broke.
My husband's brother offered to send us the pump that he had somehow managed to sweet-talk a nurse into giving to him when my sister-in-law had her first baby. We were stoked to be receiving a hospital-grade breastpump! We received it quickly. We put it to work. I placed a suction cup over each breast. We pumped away, excited to see the milk come flowing.
It didn't come. At least not enough to feed a baby. There was a secondary hand pump attached, so we used that while the mechanism got to it's job. That's right- it took me and my husband and all four of our hands to get any milk out. Thankfully, a little more eked out… but still not much.
Now, I had read so much about doctors and their ulterior motives and whatnot, as well as the poison that formula was. So, being the thoughtful mother I was, I only gave my son about a quarter of the recommended feedings of formula, and instead nursed him more. I felt quite proud of myself. I was certain I was making more milk. He was looking fatter. I was feeling accomplished.
When we arrived at the doctor we found that he was in fact still losing ounces. And I'm not talking he lost the usual few and it was put back on… my son was losing weight. A considerable amount. When the doctor asked me how often I was giving him the formula, I replied smugly, "two or three times a day."
I'm pretty sure I saw flames shoot out of his ears.
He turned away from me and called a nurse in. He requested some ready-to-feed formula. He gave it to my son himself. He asked me if my son was eliminating consistently, to which I answered yes, often. He asked to see one of the soiled diapers. We took a look, and to his surprise, my son's poop was not showing any signs of malnourishment. It was the correct color of a well-fed, breastfed newborn. So why was he losing weight?
He turned to me and handed me another can of free formula, the same hypoallergenic one he had given me days earlier. "Every three hours" he said directly into my eyes. Tears were spilling down my face, and I nodded. He left the room and I crumbled into my husband's arms.
I felt like a failure. And on top of that, a negligent mother. Here, someone had helped me, and in my "I-know-what's-best-for-my-baby" huff, my child was still slowly wasting away.
We were diligent after that. Every three hours, my son had formula, without fail. We also continued to nursing and pumping routine. Each trip to the pediatrician showed that my baby boy was indeed gaining sufficient weight. The times between visits got longer and longer. My baby was looking a little fatter, happier, and stronger.
It was exhausting to keep up with the demands of nursing/pumping/feeding formula every three hours. It meant almost no sleep. It meant almost no showers. It meant almost no seeing friends, no talking on the phone, no watching TV. There was simply not enough time or energy left over for any of those things. I became hyper-focused on my son. I repeated breastfeeding mantras all day long. I drank a half-gallon of water and a half-gallon of stinging nettles infusion daily. I took blessed thistle and fenugreek. I continued with my vitamins, and ate as nourishing a meal as possible with no time to cook for myself (usually this was spinach and eggs and whole wheat toast). My husband was juggling caring for me with keeping up with the demands of a very high-needs client who called all hours of the day and couldn't care less about our newborn. We had very little help. My two closest friends who could visit did as often as they could, but it was smack-dab in the middle of flu season and they had their own kids and own lives to deal with. We were largely alone.
We returned to the pediatrician six weeks after starting with the formula supplements. He'd apparently forgotten that I had previously been a negligent and arrogant mother who'd shrugged off his professional advice and nearly starved my baby. He greeted me with a warm smile. My son's weight was good, he was developing normally and was happy and healthy. He asked me if I was still giving formula. I sat up straight and said, "Yes sir." He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye, and said, "Why?" I was stunned. He smiled and said that there was no need for formula supplementation anymore if I wanted to discontinue giving it. I was free to breastfeed my baby as I pleased.
I burst into joyful tears. My husband cried, too. We held each other, held our son, and we hugged and cried and laughed and declared victory. It was the happiest day of my new life as a mother. My son would live and thrive. I could breastfeed him, all on my own. I could hold my baby close, and nurse him as long as I saw fit. I was overjoyed.
And so, on that note, I will say this: the Similac ad is good. It made me laugh and cry and feel the feels. And yes, I am quite aware of the shlock factor. I am quite aware of the unethical practices that this company doesn't reveal. I am aware that their direct marketing is a not-so-subltle jab at the best intentions of a new mother to breastfeed.
I am also aware of the smugness and judgment of some of my breastfeeding compatriots. I see it all the time. Hell, I've even participated. And now this Similac ad, under the guise of "ending the mommy wars"- such a contrived and ridiculous false war- has in fact, ignited them anew. I am aware that in any war- real or contrived- real people get hurt. And I agree with my breastfeeding mamas that Similac knew exactly what they were doing.
But here's my question: aren't we breast-is-best moms just a teeny, tiny bit angry/disappointed that we didn't get there first? That we didn't extent the olive leaf to our formula feeding friends (or enemies) in as clever a way first? Because, as far as I've been able to tell, in large part, we haven't been doing that.
We've declared loud and clear that formula is poison. That it contributes to obesity, diabetes, and sets a baby up for unhealthy eating habits for life. Interesting that most of us who say this were formula babies ourselves. Neither I nor my husband (or my tall, skinny, healthy best friend) are obese, diabetic or dead. That's not to say that children haven't died from contaminated formula, or suffered complications from using formula. We know it has happened. But what are we really accomplishing when we loudly and proudly proclaim formula as an evil poison?
So far, I have never seen that work to pull any mother onto the side of breastfeeding. Nor have I seen it build relationships between women who breastfeed and women who use formula. I have friends on both sides. And while some would contend that staying 'silent' is tantamount to endorsing the evil formula companies, I would call bullshit. It's not about silence. It's about holding space for a mother who may not have had the support she needed to accomplish her breastfeeding goals. Because she is still a good mother… and maybe, just maybe, by having a laugh at a well-crafted ad and sharing stories, maybe this same formula-feeding mom may be better informed and supported and perhaps be successful with nursing her subsequent children. Or maybe she won't. I can almost guarantee that inviting said mom to my house and listing the ways in which her formula company is evil and conniving and unethical and how she is poisoning her child is not going to get me heard, is not going to build bridges.
I'll no sooner blame Similac for using shlock to sell a product than I will blame a dog for eating cat shit. THAT'S JUST WHAT THEY DO. I will however, not buy their product, not endorse their product, share my love of breastfeeding with the world while simultaneously supporting and loving my friends who use formula.
So, tonight, I will snuggle up with my husband (who is in advertising, by the way) after putting our two breastfed sons to bed, and we'll catch up on Breaking Bad. Not because we endorse the cooking and using of crystal meth, but because it's a damn good and entertaining show, and it brings up interesting points of conversation we might not have had otherwise.
Thank you for your time.
PS- there will undoubtedly be a lot of insistence that I could have given my son donor milk instead of formula. On that, I will highlight two points: 1. My son's digestive system was working at a rapid rate (a trait he inherited from both me and my husband). He very likely would have had the same response to donor milk, resulting in us wasting precious time and resources. Had I continued to be unable to produce, I likely would have gone that route. 2. By using donor milk, I might never have had the chance to breastfeed my son for the last four years. I suspect that if that had happened, I might well have had a great deal of anxiety around breastfeeding once my second son was born, and may have 'failed' a second time. But I guess we'll never know for sure.
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