Breastfeeding is magic.
To see my child’s eyes, closed in peace and fulfillment in mind and body, breathing gently, and eventual slumber. I am so thankful that I get to experience this.
Before you think that I am totally full of shit, consider this: I didn’t -- couldn’t -- breastfeed my first, who is now three years old and has been growing beautifully. I took the classes, watched the YouTube videos, pumped, prayed, thought happy thoughts, spoke with several friends and family members who successfully breastfed their [multiple] children. None of it worked before I let my poor excuse of a supply run dry as little T turned four months old. I have said to my doctor, my OB/GYN, T’s pediatrician, our friends, and now I will tell you that rather than feed my first child primarily breast milk and supplement with formula, that we fed her formula and supplemented it with breast milk.
Fast forward to three years, and the experience has been the complete opposite. L’s birth was something out of a textbook: within 48 hours I was feeling cramps, the “lightening.” Within 36 hours I said goodbye to my mucus plug. Within 18 hours I was contracting. I managed to sleep while contractions got more severe overnight, and closer together, until we called the hospital and were admitted to triage. “Do you need medication?” the nurse asked me while recording my vitals. “Give me all the drugs,” I responded before another contraction set in and I let loose with a rising crescendo of curses. Five hours later, L is safe in my arms and I am in awe of how beautiful she is. It all happened so quickly. That’s what every seasoned parent will say, It all goes by so quickly.
From the moment L was placed on my chest for that initial skin-to-skin contact, she wanted to breastfeed. This small gesture from such a small and new baby meant everything to me. It meant another chance for success. It meant saving money on formula. In this unprecedented era of coronavirus, it means an added closeness between me and my baby.
