Why World Breastfeeding Week Sucks

It may be World Breastfeeding Week, but I’m not going to lie. I wish there was a dislike button for every post and picture I see.

I have two little babes myself. The problem with raising awareness for breastfeeding is that it kills me to see the posts.
It’s like a stab in my heart every time I see a woman happily (and easily) breastfeeding her babe.
I spent months trying to breastfeed my first. Endless crying, hours upon hours of fighting for a latch, hand expressing, and pumping. I did not leave the house for weeks. I did not sleep. Every minute that baby girl slept, I pumped. I hand expressed. I took vitamins and herbs and drank tea and ate lactation snacks.
Nothing worked. I could pump a half an ounce. I could keep babe awake on the boob for maybe 10 minutes if I was lucky. I was in tears every time she cried.
I should say I was hysterical. Why didn’t my body work?
The only thing I could think of was, my baby is not going to survive this way. If this were a hundred years ago, my baby would not live. I know it’s a little irrational to think that way, but I couldn’t help it.
I know a million people told me that formula is okay. Fed is best.

 

But when you’re trying everything in the books to make breastfeeding work, you can’t see anything else. You are determined. I needed my body to do this beyond anything else.
It became an obsession . It became postpartum depression, ultimately. Because I failed.
I failed my baby. I could not breastfeed.
Every time we prepared formula, I felt like a failure.

 

Every time my husband fed our child, I felt like a failure.
My body was incapable of doing the one thing it was meant to do. Feed my own child.
Fed is best, but being unable to breastfeed is beyond a blow to the self esteem.
Almost every other woman I know could and can breastfeed. What is wrong with me?
Then I got pregnant with baby girl number two.
“I’m going to breastfeed this one”, I decided. “It’s going to work because I’m going to be less anxious about it.”
Then when baby girl was born, we spent an extra night in the hospital because this babe wouldn’t, or couldn’t, feed either.
Again, I was hysterical. I was having fits of anger and frustration, complete with tears and anxiety and despair.
Around 2am, the nurse offered to take babe so I could sleep, and she would feed her some formula. The nurse could see I was already at a breaking point. On the verge of a mental breakdown; day two of “feeding” and already a basket case.
And then she wheeled her back to me a few hours later; a peaceful, happy, swaddled little bundle. Again, I knew I failed.

 

The next day I put on my happy face because we were able to leave the hospital. We decided on the formula that the hospital used. We went to the store and got settled at home.

 

Both of my girls are thriving, happy, beautiful children. Brinley is 8 months and growing like a weed and Keegan is the cutest, happiest, healthiest little two year old you ever did see.
But every time one of my friends brings home their brand new little one, I painfully ask how feeding is going. I try to offer encouragement if they say they’re struggling, but mostly, it comes naturally to all of them. Then I regret asking because I feel letdown.
I dutifully hit “like” on those breastfeeding pictures because ultimately I am happy for them, albeit incredibly jealous. It hurts me to see other babes getting what they need from their mama because mine never got that.
Happy world breastfeeding week, everyone. Try not to forget those little babes raised on bottles, too.

Long weekend? What long weekend?

Mamas get no weekends.

It’s fri-yay. The thing I’m most excited for…? Daddy will be home. For 3 whole days.

I love my kids but it’s damn exhausting being mama. All day every day… plus most nights at bedtime I’m on my own lately as well.

Not to mention I’m trying to get my fitness back in my schedule so I’m up at the crack of dawn before anyone else in the house.

Oh and I’m up late… working on my husbands business or my blog or trying to sneak in a glass of wine and a couple pages of a book.

I regress.

The long weekend is here.

I wish I could say we have some extraordinary plans for BC day long weekend, but we don’t. We have typical weekend plans of going to the dump (no garbage pick up in our little community unless you pay privately!), grocery shopping, yard work, and maybe toss in a few mini house Reno’s like finally installing the new hood fan for our range.

I sit here in the half hour of nap time peace & quiet drinking a coffee that is cold and sitting just in nose-reach of a poopy diaper sitting on the floor from the toddlers dirty butt an hour ago.

I’m too damn tired to get up and move it, and if I get up to put it in the garbage, I will then likely start the dishes or move the laundry…

And I don’t wanna.

So I’m gonna sit here and smell the poopy diaper. And when my girls get up, we’re going to play outside and have a picnic lunch because we don’t need a long weekend to make memories. We have every day, and as exhausting as it is, I want to use every day to make them as happy and fulfilled as any long weekend adventure would.

Why wait?

oh, hello thirty.

It’s 9:00pm.

It’s July. It is still light outside my window, but I’ve closed the blinds to pretend it’s nighttime because I’m friggin exhausted and I am ready for bed.

I’m sitting in my underwear and a bagged out mens tee, I’ve got my hair piled into a banana clip, and I’m drinking wine. Suddenly I’m in my thirties.

And I think I’m okay with that.

Years ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead in this get-up – let alone telling the whole world about it! But seriously. Turning thirty changes you. You DGAF.

The girls are finally asleep; although this 9pm bedtime has become normal in this household the past few weeks so I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s “already 9pm.”

But it’s late for me! I’m old now. We had an exhausting day in 30 degree sun at the waterpark. What a terrible idea that was! With two babies, I’m never leaving the house again unless it’s into the air conditioned car and then into an air conditioned space out of the sun. Or maybe I just won’t leave my central a/c until October.

A few things made me realize that I am legit 30 now. Things are happening and thoughts are occurring that would never have happened in my twenties. For example, as stated above, anything above 25 degrees outside is too damn hot to leave the house.

You know, unless I miraculously get a babysitter and I can escape to the lake on my paddle board with nothing but a 6 pack and my swim suit. But we all know the likelihood of that happening.

Another 30 year old (mom) thought I had today: why the EFF do diaper boxes come sealed like they’re concealing gold inside. It is INSANE trying to open one of those damn boxes! The flaps are all glued down with CEMENT and then someone decided to add packing tape just for fun.

Trying to open one quietly in the toddlers room while the baby is asleep close by is like trying to eat chips at night. So. Loud. I clearly don’t store sharp objects in my toddlers room so why the hell don’t diaper boxes have a pull tab somewhere! Mom’s struggle enough in life. Come on Huggies. Smarten the eff up.

I definitely realized I’m in my thirties this afternoon while unloading the dishwasher. The baby was entertained with some noisy toy and the toddler was involved with some toy car meeting on the coffee table so I knew I had about 3.5 minutes to get the dishes put away. Good. That’s tons of time. I can do things at lightning speed these days, NBD.

But for some reason, we have a tiny little drawer designated for utensils. And I don’t mean forks and knives and spoons, but I mean those big bulky plastic ladles and spatulas and flipper things (what ARE those called, anyway?). We have accumulated so many of these plastic nightmares that it is impossible to get them all into the drawer and have the drawer close normally.

I saved these buggers until the end of the unloading; all piled up on the countertop. Last minute and a half until I was interrupted; I could see the tot starting to look over at me from her car meeting and the baby was getting herself lodged in an uncomfortable position. The “mama, mama” and the “waa-waa”‘s were on their way. I grabbed the utensils and headed for the tiny drawer just as the tot started tugging at me. Damn.

I opened the drawer and threw everything inside but of course it did not lay magically flat and neat and organized. Oh no. The ladle stuck up and a handle jammed the drawer.

“Mama, mama,” tug, tug. UGH. Open drawer. Smash shit around, close drawer. Tug tug. “Mama!” I turn to the tot and tell her one second, mama is just finishing up putting away the dishes. That buys me 10 seconds to little take everything out of the drawer, shuffle it around in my hands and jam it back in. The baby starts crying and the drawer still doesn’t close. Inside I am fuming over these damn utensils.

WHY. Why does this draw make me so irrationally mad! I want to break things at this point!

I give up. I shuffled things one more time and slammed the drawer. It worked. I win. For now. I scoop up the baby and help Keegs with her car conference.

So this is life now. The daily struggles of being a thirty year old stay at home mom I guess!