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When I was pregnant, I was set on nursing my baby until at least the age of six months, which is the recommended amount of time as stated by the American Academy of Pediatrics. I read about the pros and cons, about latching, mastitis and how to deal with it, and researched what kind of pump I should get. I eagerly looked forward to holding my newborn skin-to-skin immediately after being born and getting her to latch on for our first precious moments of parent-child bonding.
Then M was born via c-section and whisked away to the NICU.
After about two hours in the recovery area after surgery, I was finally brought to my room. It was about two thirty in the morning. The main requirement for leaving the recovery area was ability to move my legs because the hospital transport personnel were not allowed to help me from the transportation bed into my hospital bed. When we got to my room, I somehow maneuvered myself from one bed to the other, relieved to finally be able to go to sleep. I had never felt so drained and tired in my life.
Then the NICU called. It was time to feed my baby. Did I want to come try and nurse her?
Yes! Yes, I did! But I was so tired and could not move. Like, at all.
"I have to go nurse my baby," I said to the night nurse, who had brought me a whole pitcher of water and a stack of cups.
She looked at me and almost laughed.
"No, you don't," she said. "You're not going anywhere. You're going to sleep."
Too exhausted to fight her, I downed the pitcher of water instead. Besides, she was right.
The next day, the pain from surgery set in. I didn't let that stop me, though. I was determined to nurse my baby! I waited about an hour and a half for transport to come wheel me her.
There she was--the healthiest baby in the NICU. She wore a cute yellow knitted hat made by some old ladies who donated their knittings to NICU babies (even healthy NICU babies who are only there for precautionary measures). Her skin was so pale it was almost translucent. Her eyes were like blueberries. She was beautiful. And she was hungry.
A nurse handed her to me and I tried to have her latch on. It worked, sort of. But she was screaming out of hunger. I wanted to nurse her, but she was not getting anything from me and I was afraid she was starving. I was also still exhausted and in pain. I just wanted to feed my baby and snuggle with her, whether it was through breastfeeding or bottle. At that moment, I didn't care.
So bottle it was. I cradled her as I fed her from a tiny two-ounce Similac bottle that looked more like a test tube with a nipple on the end. She was my beautiful baby and I was providing for her. Who cared if it was through vitamin-enriched, iron-fortified formula?
Throughout my stay in the hospital, I continued to try and breastfeed my daughter. Because she wasn't in the room with me, I also had to pump. This was where the real trouble started.
I hated pumping.
I felt like a cow hooked up to a milking machine.
There was also never a good time to do it. People were always coming in and out of my room, whether it was visitors, nurses, or doctors. I hardly ever had a stretch of privacy time where I could feel uncomfortable by myself instead of in front of an audience.
By the time we were discharged from the hospital, M had been exclusively formula-fed.
After about a day at home, my milk finally came in. But by that point, I was in pain from my incision and healing muscles, exhausted from staying up all night with my newborn, and overwhelmed by the thought I might never sleep again. I thought about starting to nurse. Then I thought about the pain of it and the complications. It was too much. M was so happy and thriving well on formula. I was happy others were able to feed M when I needed some recuperation time. I didn't want to throw another wrench in the mix when things were already difficult.
So formula feeding it was. And still is.
M is currently ten months old, crawling, babbling, cruising, climbing stairs, eating solids, playing peekaboo, and generally adjusting to life beautifully. She, I, and my husband have a tight family bond. I would not change a thing about the way we are raising her--including bottle feeding.
I felt guilty about not nursing my daughter for a long time. But the fact is, breast is not necessarily best. You have to take all factors into consideration, and it is always good to be skeptical of blanket statements about absolutes (something is not usually "best" or "worst," just like one should avoid making statements about "always" or "never.").
Lucie's List, an excellent resource for new parents, linked to two articles that came out in the past year about how new research shows that the claimed benefits of breastfeeding over bottle feeding are not necessarily accurate. In a study about siblings where some were breastfed and some were bottle fed, no significant difference was found regarding intelligence, BMI, reading and math skills, and hyperactivity. An article on the New York Times blog writes about the same (or a similar) study, suggesting that it is not the way a baby is fed but the kind of family the baby is born into that brings about the benefits attributed to breastfeeding; apparently women of higher-class families are more likely to breastfeed, which skews the studies about breast vs. bottle fed babies, as there are other significant variables to consider.
Breastfeeding is good way to feed your baby. So is bottle feeding. As long as you are making the healthiest choice for you and your baby (nutritionally healthy as well as mentally and emotionally healthy), you are doing what is "best."
So that Similac commercial everyone is commenting on? I think they got it right. In the end, we're all parents trying to make the best choices we can for our children. It's not about how we feed them. Or diaper them. Or tote them around. It's about loving them and being the best parents we can be to them, taking into account our different personal and family situations.
Because taking into account the overall health of our families? That's what's best.
