Touched Out

I was in month two of my maternity leave, sitting in a cozy arm chair in our family room, nursing my six week old for, oh, maybe the 70th time that day, when my sweet and loving two and a half year old son scrambled up in the chair and squeezed himself in the minuscule space between me and the chair arm. He kissed my cheek and I said thank you, but I was feeling a bit claustrophobic. The July heat was penetrating the room and getting the best of the air conditioning. And little Marlowe is like having a portable heater strapped to your chest. I kissed him back and suggested he play with his toys on the floor, but he didn't budge.

He sang and patted his sister on the head. It was so cute, but all I could think was get these kids off of me! I tried again to distract my son and told him I thought I heard Piggy calling for him to play over by the couch.

"Piggy's not here, mommy," he said. "He's in my room."

Just then my husband decided to take a break from his writing and come say hello to us all. He smiled at the sight of his little family piled on top of each other in the arm chair. He came over, placed a hand on my shoulder and kissed my head. The kiss that broke the camel's back.

"Okay!" Was all that came out of my mouth, but I quickly handed the baby to my husband and walked, through the kitchen, into the living room and out the front door. I was sort of surprised to find myself out there. My body had been on autopilot in a hunt for space. I took a deep breath and sat down on the step.

I was touched out, over touched, suffering from no-more-touchiness. I love nursing my baby girl and I love snuggling with my little boy and I love when my husband kisses me on the head, all a separate times.  It makes me feel like I do not own my body and I feel out of control, which is not enjoyable for me.

This is happens to a lot of moms, dads too probably, although I think dads suffer more from lack of touch in the early month of a new baby, but I'm sure there are cases to be made. It happened to me when it was just Beckett, but now that I have two, it's a bit more frequent.

I try now to give Beckett a project when I'm going to nurse, a puzzle or some crayons. That works, sometimes. Other times, if my husband is around, I sneak away to another room and shut my eyes while I nurse Marlowe. And sometimes there is nothing I can do. Beckett needs me, Marlowe needs me, I breath through it and take a long bath later, if time permits or allow myself two glasses of wine after Beckett's in bed and let Hillary bond with Marlowe over a nice warm bottle.

Good Moms Feed Their Babies

This post was inspired by Mothering's "Blog About Breastfeeding" event.

I sat sobbing in the huge room with clear bassinets and incubators lining the walls. My 4 lb 7 oz, daughter lay with just her diaper on under a heat lamp in front of me. The hospital's lactation consultant had just brought me a bag of small receptacles for collecting my colostrum. She was giving me a moment to compose myself.

Marlowe was seven weeks early, one day old and perfectly tiny. I was stunned to have a child in the NICU. It was something that had truly never crossed my mind. After a brief moment of snuggling her post delivery she was whisked away to a nearby children's hospital, my husband in tow. I spent a lonely night in the hospital bonding with a breast pump every three hours. Everything felt so wrong.

My memories of the days in the hospital after the birth of my first child are warm and hazy with nothing but coziness and love. The cold quiet of the NICU, interrupted only by ailing babies crying in unison, shocked me in a way I wasn't expecting. I focused on Marlowe's little fingers, blew my nose and looked at the lactation consultant.

"Breastfeeding is really important to me," I said. "I exclusively breastfed my son until he was two. Please tell me what I need to do to make that happen with Marlowe."

She told me that I needed a hospital grade pump and that I should be pumping both sides at the same time for 10-15 minutes every 2-3 hours.

Good, I thought. Directions are good. I will bring milk in tomorrow.

"They will be supplementing her with formula, however. Until you start producing enough milk."

I gasped. "But..." My mind was racing. What was it about formula that I was so opposed to? I couldn't think. Then, "what about nipple confusion?" My facade had cracked. The tears were flowing again.

"I don't believe nipple confusion is a real thing." She sounded stern and I started crying harder.

"Babies know where the good stuff is. If you put her to the breast, when she's ready, she'll take your milk." Her voice was softer. She touched my knee. "You want her to grow as quickly as possible. That's how you'll get her home."

Okay, so there was the plan, at least, to get her home. I pumped religiously for a week and only had drops to show for it. I was stressed and frazzled, not getting enough calories, water or rest to increase my supply. I went to a  friend who happens to be a birth educator for help. She suggested herbs. I took them and they helped. I left her that day with more than advice on my milk supply, however. She told me this - "good moms feed their babies."

I've thought about that a lot. Marlowe needed food. I couldn't give it to her immediately. She had to get it elsewhere. I've dropped my formula hang up since then. Moms everywhere are doing what they need to to feed their babies. Be it by formula, their own breast milk or a donor's. They are all good moms, feeding their children so they will grow.  

Two months later, Marlowe nurses like a champ, and I am grateful for that. I am also grateful for the help we had in the beginning when she couldn't.