The fascinating female anatomy
I saw the image above of a woman’s milk ducts multiple times on my Facebook feed last week - the first time while nursing my daughter, nonetheless. “How”, I immediately wondered, “can this be right under my skin, feeding my baby, right at this moment? How was I never taught this in school? How did I never read about this or see a similar image in the many - many - pregnancy books I’ve read in the past couple of years?”
It is a mesmerizing image. Many of the articles which shared it had comments from people who didn’t believe it was true. Some people, women even, were disgusted by it. Others commented on how the milk ducts look like flesh flowers. I, personally, was just in awe.
During both of my postpartum periods (still ongoing), my biggest struggle has been to come to terms with my new body. This is a body that doesn’t fit in most of my old clothes. It’s a body that took 10 months to feel like my own after S’s birth, and who knows how long it’ll take for this feeling to come back this time around. It’s also a body that nurtured two lives from scratch. It’s a body that continues to nourish, via milk ducts very similar to the ones picture above, a baby whose fat little rolls make me so proud.
Accepting vs. honoring my own body is a real, non-negligible struggle. It takes conscious effort to acknowledge and sympathize with how much it has gone through in the past two years. Both of my pregnancies were “easy” by comparison, which in turn makes it harder to come to terms with the monumental toll they took on my body. Producing rich, nourishing milk is another feat short of a miracle. Did you know that a woman’s body will take all nutrients the baby needs from her own stores to produce milk, regardless of whether she has enough for herself? Breastfeeding is in fact nutritiously more taxing on a woman’s body than pregnancy itself. No wonder there have been days (weeks, months) in which I felt depleted and occasionally defeated. If only I wasn’t so distressed by the image I currently see in the mirror, I should probably pat myself on the back.
Don’t get me wrong. I am proud of my babies. I am all for empowering women. It would be hypocritical of me to be hard on my own body while telling other women to love theirs, just because my old clothes once again don’t fit quite right. But I would also be lying - to myself, most importantly - if I didn’t admit that I’ve been conditioned to believe that I should “bounce back” after birth. That I am not disappointed every time I step on the scale and erroneously believe for a split second that I should’ve “shed the baby weight” by now. I remember wondering if I’d ever feel good in my own skin again months after giving birth to S. I now know that I will, but that doesn’t make this ambivalent transitional postpartum period any easier.
I was recently asked what I wished for all postpartum women. I said I wished they would be kinder to their own bodies, starting in their own minds, regardless of societal pressures. I said I wished that for myself. It is certainly what I wish for my daughter. Though I’m not quite there yet, I do wish those flesh flowers work as a reminder to us all that the female body is simply fascinating, regardless of its past, present or future shape or size.
Alas, the day has come
I wrote the text below about a month ago. I wrote it from raw feelings of relief and heartbreak. I didn't know how else to feel about my son's decision to wean himself - or at least what I thought had been his decision. I refused to do any research before writing the post so as to not shush my emotions; and felt silly immediately after looking it up. "There's just no such thing as baby-led weaning before he's at least 2 years old", read one article; "If your baby isn't interested in breastfeeding any longer then you're not trying hard enough", suggested another in somewhat kinder words. Overwhelmed with guilt, I decided to postpone publishing this text.
In the following month of failed attempts at nursing, I've gained some perspective on the matter and decided to go ahead and publish it. After all, I have a feeling that other women out there may have also gone down the guilt-led path of feeling subpar as a mother before accepting, like me, that frankly we're just doing our best. And there's no shame in that.
...
A few nights ago, I tried to nurse my son as I have every night since he was born - but he wasn't having any of it. He kept pushing himself away from my breasts, and the more I tried to nurse him, the more upset he got. I assumed he was just in a ~particular~ mood and let him calm down before trying again. Several failed attempts later, he happily drank a whole bottle of formula and promptly fell asleep.
We have repeated this process every morning and evening since, with the same result. I have come to the inevitable conclusion that my son has decided to wean himself, and I am frankly heartbroken.
This experience goes to show that you truly don't know how you'd react until you've been through something first-hand. Of course, I always knew that this day would come sooner or later. I assumed I'd be fine with it, that I'd be even in part relieved and eager to eat spicy foods or have a beer on a weekend afternoon, or to fit back into my pre-pregnancy bras. Above all, I assumed I'd have a say - any say - on the circumstances in which my son would stop nursing. I never assumed he'd make this decision all by himself.
From the beginning, in my head it was mandatory to nurse S until at least 6 months, as it is recommended time and again by every single source of motherhood knowledge. Once that milestone was reached and surpassed, I set a new goal for 8 months. In the meantime I silently pictured myself nursing him on his 1st birthday, feeling fulfilled at the realization that he still couldn't have enough of our unique bond. Little did I know that my son had his own plans, and decided to quit cold turkey at 7 and a half months.
My first reaction was to presume that I had approached breastfeeding incorrectly from the get-go. I blamed myself for not pumping enough (or perhaps having gotten the wrong pump?), for not drinking enough "nursing tea" (or maybe drinking too much of the wrong tea??). I blamed myself for introducing the pacifier too soon, and the bottle, and solids. In every scenario, his loss of interest for breastmilk was my fault. And yet I do still have milk - he's just not having any of it. As my godmother put it, he must have realized that he's now only interested in tasting his food directly from the source, instead of filtered.
Deep down I know it isn't me. But it is hard to accept that the unique connection he and I and no one else in the world had at every moment he was breastfed, is forever gone. I acknowledge the fact that, like everything in our lives, nursing S had to end at some point.
It just bothers me deeply that I didn't savor every second of the last time he was up for nursing - as in my rookie-ness I hadn't realized that it would possibly be the last time. To me, this has been a 101 lesson on cherishing the here and the now. On realizing and accepting that my baby boy is already his own person with his own preferences and wishes. And on celebrating every single fluid phase of motherhood, for it all goes by way too fast.
