Five years ago, when my wild and untamable firstborn came barreling into my life, there was only one thing I knew for certain about motherhood: Come hell or high water, I would breastfeed. Why I felt this way is still unclear—but nursing’s magical ability to quiet my baby’s pained and colicky cries was, in a way, lifesaving.
After trying one after the other, I realized that lactation consultants are not one-size-fits-all.
So when, a few years later, my husband and I welcomed Baby S. into our lives, I assumed I’d follow the same approach: breastfeed to survive. But this new baby was not on board. It took trial and error to find a lactation consultant who could not only help decode our nursing issues but also coax me into trusting my instincts as a mom again. After trying one after the other, I realized that lactation consultants are not one-size-fits-all. Instead, they are ordinary people with different personalities and different working styles, and finding the right, supportive fit for me was crucial to successfully breastfeeding my baby.
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Baby S. was a reluctant nurser. Even in the hospital, she would fall asleep at the breast just seconds in. I’d tickle her feet. I’d rub her hair. I even, at the advice of the nurse on duty, ran a cold washcloth down her back. And yet, this baby remained uninterested.
A few days after being discharged, we were back in the hospital, this time admitting Baby S. for jaundice—a condition, I soon learned, in which frequent and robust feedings are critical to recovery. I pumped at all hours of the night and day, while Baby S. lay inside a light-therapy box beside me, stretched out as if sunbathing at the beach.
She had no issue with a bottle, so she was eating regularly, and 48 hours later, the light box had been rolled away and my baby was back in my arms. Before we could leave, however, I agreed to sit with a lactation consultant to ensure I had all the support I needed to keep Baby S. going strong.
The hospital’s LC on duty came by and leaned over me to observe the rhythm of the baby’s jaw, her beaded necklace clanking against my back. “She’s a lazy nurser,” she snapped matter-of-factly. “Your supply will dry up fast if you don’t take this seriously.” I sobbed, flooded with guilt that I had relaxed into my first days with Baby S. and had not made more demands of her on the nursing front. Instead of approaching breastfeeding with the fervor of a drill sergeant, as prescribed by this LC, I sat mesmerized by this tiny creature—hardly paying attention to whether she was actively nursing or blissfully asleep on my chest.
I was one week postpartum, awash in hormones, and sleep deprived. I took the baby home and I remember slamming cabinets, throwing my things across the room in a desperate rage. “So what?” I screamed at my wide-eyed husband. “So, I’m not going to breastfeed!” I took one look at the LC’s business card and tore it to shreds, leaving it there on the counter.
In hindsight, I can understand that this LC was not the coldhearted demon my freshly postpartum status made her out to be. She was frank and straightforward, qualities that reliably clash with my sensitive, tender-hearted nature. On a better day, I would have recognized this.
I was one week postpartum, awash in hormones, and sleep deprived. I took the baby home and I remember slamming cabinets, throwing my things across the room in a desperate rage.
Later, at the urging of my husband, I rang up another LC from the hospital’s directory—this one was kind, grandmotherly even. I followed her prescriptive advice like a religion, instituting a strict regimen of nursing and pumping that had me setting alarms at god-awful hours of the night. With her advice, I aimed to bolster my milk supply and assure Baby S. had no further jaundice issues moving forward. But the resulting juggling act left me exhausted and hopeless, wondering how I could do anything at all but pump and nurse ad nauseam.
I kept up her regimen until one day, bleary-eyed and miserable, I ran into my mother’s longtime friend Mary, who worked as a midwife and lactation consultant. When I burst into tears in response to a simple “How are you?” she offered to pay me a visit. Was I ready for yet another LC’s take on my situation? I rolled the dice and said yes.
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Mary relished holding my baby. She scooped her up and swayed while I teetered my still- recovering body onto a stack of pillows. She brought me water. She moved at my pace. And she encouraged me to relax into the fourth trimester. After studying Baby S. nurse, Mary determined she was a quick and efficient nurser, not a lazy one. “Watch her hands,” she whispered above the baby. “When she uncurls her fists, that’s a sign that she is satisfied.” With Mary’s guidance, I put away the pump—at least until I needed it. “You need sleep too,” she told me. I stopped setting my alarm for 3 a.m.
I trusted that I could follow the baby’s lead, nursing as frequently and for as long as she wished—having a newfound faith in Mary and her seemingly infinite wisdom.
The moment Mary became my LC, she was invested in Baby S., texting me to check in on the two of us. I’d shoot off an email asking a question, and hours later, she’d be calling me on the phone to talk me through whatever nursing issue was on my mind. Once, in the midst of a nursing strike, after I’d held Baby S. in front of me and proclaimed, “You’re going to ruin everything!” Mary calmly talked me down from the ledge. I abandoned my nursing charts and apps. I stopped weighing the baby throughout the day. And I trusted that I could follow the baby’s lead, nursing as frequently and for as long as she wished—having a newfound faith in Mary and her seemingly infinite wisdom.
Baby S. is now on the brink of 19 months and we are just now winding down our nursing days—a feat I once deemed wholly impossible with this little one. I now have a well-stocked memory full of delicious tiny moments with my breastfeeding baby warm and sleepy on my chest. There are moments I’ve held her close as she nursed, wrapping her fingers around my thumb. Moments where, with no option to get up and go, I sat and studied each curve of her tiny face. It’s been in these moments—set to the slow motion of breastfeeding—that I’ve borne witness to a quiet transformation: There, in my arms day after day, I’ve seen her babyhood fade and gently give way to the child she is becoming.
Our breastfeeding days are fleeting. I feel that in my bones and I’m OK with that. We’ve had a beautiful run, one I almost gave up on entirely—had it not been for the unwavering support and guidance of Mary.
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