It takes a village. Every person you encounter while your child is screaming, crying, and making any daily task slightly more challenging will utter this phrase. Before I had kids, I latched on to the concept of this village, hoping to have one for my first birth, before realizing that what I was envisioning, in fact, was a mirage. For my second birth, I gave up on plans for a village, but one came together anyway. I learned that if you asked the right questions, then your village could end up being not one of dreams filled with seasoned grannies and warm bosoms comforting infants but one fitting the necessary needs of the mother.
I wouldn’t say I was cool as a cucumber and rolled along with what came my way, but I came to grips with the fact that my plan had imploded.
Before my first child was born, I spent months carefully curating my ideal village. I expected to be surrounded by a powerhouse of women ushering me into motherhood when the time came. One of my best friends was going to act as my doula, my mom would be there, and my midwives would all make sure that I came through this feeling strong and empowered. But eight weeks out from my due date, I got a call. The midwives had somehow missed something in a report from the doctor who looked over all my scans. I had placenta previa. There was no way to continue with the plan. Instead, I needed to have an early C-section in six weeks’ time.
I wouldn’t say I was cool as a cucumber and rolled along with what came my way, but I came to grips with the fact that my plan had imploded. Still, I figured I would have enough support around me to make sure that my secondary goal of being able to breastfeed was still intact. I would be in a hospital, and surely everyone in the maternity ward would be well-versed in lactation support.
After my daughter was born, while my body aggressively shook from the medication, I kept asking nurses when I could start trying to get her to latch. Wait, they said. I was brought to a recovery room, and I asked the same question. Wait, they said. Hours later, I tried on my own. I asked for a lactation consultant. Wait, they said. They told me I was on a list, but it’s only for mothers who really need it. I had to stay in the hospital for four days, because of the cesarean. Over three days in, no consultant had visited. At 4 a.m. on my final day there, I buzzed my nurse and begged. My daughter had been crying nonstop for hours. Still, no one came. People had come to check my vitals, but there was little care. I felt abandoned—so much for my village. As I packed my bags to leave the next day, the lactation consultant finally arrived, with bottles of formula and a hospital-grade breast pump. She told me I could rent the pump if I wanted to continue with breast milk, showed me how to use it, told my husband where to get it, and gave me a pack of formula to take home. I fed my screaming baby, and she calmed and slept.
I wasn’t asking for a village from way back when breast milk was the only option. I was asking for someone to tell me that I was doing all right.
Then, I met with lactation specialist after lactation specialist. They all told me to keep it up, that my bleeding nipples would heal, and to buy a scale to weigh my baby before and after feeding to make sure she was getting what she needed. One even told me that she couldn’t help me because I had already done too much damage by using formula. I thought that surely couldn’t be the case, that I wasn’t the only one supplementing, but I gave up on finding help. After four consultants and zero assists, I was mentally and physically exhausted and gave in to the fact that I would do my best and that’s all I could do. I pumped for seven months, mixing breast milk with formula until my boobs and I gave out. Everyone I had encountered along that devastating journey had forgotten one important thing: the mother. I would have felt supported even if everyone had just told me to throw in the burp cloth. Don’t bother. Save yourself the stress, guilt, exhaustion and feed that baby formula. I wasn’t asking for a village from way back when breast milk was the only option. I was asking for someone to tell me that I was doing all right. To metaphorically hold my hand and stroke my hair, but in reality ask if I needed more water, a meal, and whether I had already heard today that I was doing a great job.
Two years after my first pregnancy, I was attempting it all again. This time I had no expectations: I was going to simply survive pregnancy while caring for a toddler. This time, I didn’t prep or plan or stress, or even think about the help I would need, but somehow, despite the fact that this child was born during the pandemic and I was allowed no visitors, I had my dream village for a brief moment while I recovered. I didn’t feel abandoned this time. Nurses came and went, they checked my son’s vitals, and did the necessary tests, but the questions, the concern, the care was for me.
In a new city, at a new hospital, where I stayed for two days this time, I saw the lactation consultant four times. The nurses were all well versed in how to aid mothers who wanted to breastfeed, and from the second my son was born they helped in that goal. Instead of catapulting into motherhood filled with anger and fear, I coasted into this next phase tranquil—definitely not confident, but calm and ready. I was kindly reminded how on the second night, your newborn will feed more and need more attention, and to rest up for that marathon. This notion had not been conveyed to me with my daughter; I simply had thought she was an unhappy baby and blamed myself for the ineptitude as a mother right off the bat.
I realized that being surrounded by people who know that the mother is important was the key to a successful transition into motherhood.
All of the prep leading up to the birth of a child is all about the child. There’s showers and sprinkles, cradles and toys, clothes and swaddles, and meals frozen to allow for more hands for the baby. The questions are about NICUs and pediatrician visits. I filled out a card my first time around that listed my preferences and wishes, but I never thought that I needed to make sure my wishes went beyond a card in a file. I should have asked about lactation support, how frequent the visits, how soon after birth? I should have inquired about other’s experiences beyond a healthy baby. Did you feel cared for? Did your questions get answered? Did you feel alone? Did someone make sure before you brought that bundle home you were nourished in many different ways?
I realized that being surrounded by people who know that the mother is important was the key to a successful transition into motherhood. The purpose of the village, when it is more than mystical ideation, is to support, encourage, and wrap the mother in love and caring, to make sure that every woman walks into motherhood emboldened by those around her. The village that was given to me provided me with an energy at the birth of my son that I carried into my postpartum experience, making it wholly new. It wasn’t restful, but it was secure.