A month before my due date, I awoke to a strange sensation in my abdomen. Moments later a line of blood-tinged liquid trickled down the inside of my right thigh.
Having miscarried three years earlier, a spasm of fear shot through me. I took several deep breaths and began praying. Then I dialed the hospital, and an advice nurse told me to make my way to the hospital because I might be in labor.
I breathed a sigh of relief just before a new wave of panic washed over me. Impossible! The baby’s not due for another four weeks. Please, not another premie! My oldest child had been born a month early four years ago, and as a result, breastfeeding had been a nightmare. Images of nipple shields, nursing pads, lanolin cream, and breast pump paraphernalia strewn across the kitchen counter crowded my imagination. I saw myself attached to the breast pump again and sequestered to the cherry wood glider in the baby’s room for hours each day.
But I went to the hospital, and 12 hours later my little man arrived, red, wrinkly, and perfect.
Sure enough, in his first hours, he refused the breast and would only take the bottle. During my second night, a stoic nurse studied me while I struggled to breastfeed my boy, clumsily shifting him from cradle hold, to crossover hold, to football hold, then back to cradle hold. She revealed that she used to be a lactation consultant and explained how vital it was that my baby begin nursing soon, as if the round-the-clock breast/syringe/bottle/pump routine I had adhered to for the past 48 hours had been my most minimal effort.
“If he doesn’t catch on soon, he’ll most likely always prefer the bottle.”
“How soon do you mean?” I asked.
She shrugged.
I pressed. “Two weeks? Three weeks? A month?”
“It’s doubtful he’ll take to breastfeeding if he hasn’t already done so within his first month,” she replied.
One month. Those two words tattooed themselves on my brain. The nurse’s warning replayed itself in my mind over the next weeks. I recalled the many nursing obstacles I had experienced following the birth of my daughter, including poor latch, mastitis, thrush, and low milk supply. I had been determined that my daughter would breastfeed for at least six weeks. Eventually my persistence paid off. Her latch improved and she finally took to breastfeeding within her first month.
It was a different story with my son who simply had no interest in the breast and only wanted the bottle. Still I attempted everything possible to interest him in breastfeeding. I consumed gallons of nursing teas, pumped around the clock to increase milk supply, put him to the breast regularly, and tried all different sizes of nipple guards. I practiced the maddening supplemental nursing system technique, which was supposed to teach my baby to nurse naturally. However, after weeks of switching out various-sized syringes and wires, taping and re-taping the wire to my chafed chest, and struggling to keep my son’s head in the right position while wrestling with the constantly shifting wire, I had reached wit’s end. My four-week-old baby was still only interested in the bottle. The nurse’s words replayed in my head: It’s doubtful he’ll take to breastfeeding if he hasn’t already done so within his first month.
I gazed at the layer of dust on my dresser and remembered the stack of dishes in the sink, as well as the mountain of laundry I’d neglected for weeks. So much to do. I was moments away from giving up on breastfeeding altogether and resorting to formula, when my mother’s friend, a lactation consultant, called to offer advice. She listened to my problems and said,
“You’re exhausted and overwhelmed. You need a break. Actually, what you need is a nursing honeymoon.”
She explained that a nursing honeymoon is a few days spent in bed with the sole purpose of connecting with your baby stress-free. I was supposed to watch movies, eat my favorite foods, and most importantly relax. She encouraged me to snuggle with my son and give him lots of skin-to-skin time. She also ordered frequent feedings, not out of duty but rather as an opportunity to bond with him.
I shared the plan with my husband. I ignored the laundry and sink full of dishes. I closed my bedroom door and lounged with my new baby, admiring his spiky dark hair and faint dimples. I drank in the tiny perfection of his fingernails and toenails and crooned every lullaby I could think of.
I lay on my side, drawing him close to me, and attempted breastfeeding every hour. He was still having trouble latching, so I tried a nipple shield. By midday, we had already made progress. At first he only sucked a few times. Still I cheered for him, exclaiming how talented he was, and kissed his fuzzy head.
During the next attempt he sucked for 30 seconds. Again I gushed over his marvelous achievement and snuggled him closer. This went on until he eventually nursed for three minutes straight. It felt as if we had won the New York City Marathon. Two days into our honeymoon we were nearly breastfeeding pros. Nursing was shifting from a source of anxiety to one of joy. Two months (yes, two months) after his birth, he was finally nursing without any help.
I learned a valuable lesson during that nursing honeymoon: bonding with my precious baby trumps dishes, piles of laundry, and dusting. I will be forever grateful to the woman who granted me permission to relax and simply enjoy my little man.