Category — Adventures in Breastfeeding

Things are up and down with my boobs, which is stressing me out and probably causing more problems.

I went to the La Leche League meeting on Thursday. I, as with most breastfeeding mothers I know, had heard many rumors about LLL. Namely, I’d heard that they were militant, feminazi breastfeeding proponents who advocated “nurse-ins” and attachment parenting. Several of my friends were very eager for me to report my findings from the meeting.

My experience was this: La Leche League is definitely a “niche” group, not appropriate for what I’d consider average, Pamper-using, Babies R Us-shopping type families. I will preface my account with the full acknowledgement that I will come across as judgemental and possibly rude, neither of which I’m intending to be. But I admit that I was kind of disappointed with the experience and will not be attending any more meetings. In detail:

From the moment I walked in, it was glaringly obvious I didn’t really belong there. I was the only woman with a stroller — as in, everyone else was “wearing” their babies in various forms of cloth slings and other baby-wearing contraptions. The leader made sort of a big fuss about where to put my stroller, making things slightly more uncomfortable for me.

One by one, ladies and children filtered in as the leader waxed on for a good 20 minutes about the benefits of LLL membership. (Meetings are free but you have to pay for membership, which made zero sense to me. Not much of a business plan in my opinion, but anyway.)

At one point, a woman walked in and, while I didn’t notice how many children were actually hers, I believe she had no fewer than four. What was interesting about her, aside from the number of children, was the fact that she was wearing an uncomfortably short tennis skirt on her very overweight frame. Like I said, not trying to judge. But when she sat cross-legged on the floor, I was like woah damn.

Moving on.

Maybe I was misinformed, but I thought La Leche League was a breastfeeding support group sort of thing. So I was surprised when the leader presented a topic of discussion and we all had to talk about it like we were at an AA meeting. The topic was how much work mothers do when it appears we do nothing at all. We were told to talk about the things we do around the house, and we “learned” how to say them in a more “high-fallutin’” (the leader’s words, not mine) way to give gravity to the otherwise mundane-sounding chores of motherhood.

I actually really liked the topic, but I was getting antsy because I wanted to ask why my boobs were failing me and what I could do to make them work again, and I had two babies who’d had their nap interrupted to come to this group of breast-baring ladies, and here we were trying to make “I clean up shit and vomit” sound more important.

Next, the leader wanted to provide support for the two pregnant women in attendance, which was awesome. Finally, an hour and twenty minutes after the start of the meeting, she opened the floor for breastfeeding questions from the rest of the moms.

By this time, the children were bonkers. Babies were separated from mothers. Boobs were lactating. Kids were crying. Toys were usurped and diapers were desecrated. The din of wails, sobs, gurgles and giggles was distracting, to say the least. I desperately tried to raise my hand but couldn’t quite get in the loop. The mothers clucked at the evils of plastic toys from China. I shyly tried to retrieve my toxic toys from a hemp-shirt-wearing toddler.

Finally, I managed to jump in. “I started on the mini pill and my supply is practically gone. Does anyone have any experience with this? I’m trying lactation cookies, Mother’s Milk tea, fenugreek and cutting caffeine. It’s very important to me to continue breastfeeding.”

For a couple of seconds, no one acknowledged my question. Then, one mother chimed in, “Try Cat’s Claw tea for contraception.”

“Huh?”

“When taken in excess, Cat’s Claw tea can provide natural contraception.”

The leader further pushed for stopping the pill, which I was leaning toward anyway. Another lady suggested sesame for increasing supply, which I hadn’t heard of but found partially corroborated here.

So, after about 60 seconds of addressing my question, we were done. The meeting further devolved from there and I left shortly afterward.

The fenugreek is helping the most, I think. After just two doses (six pills total), I actually sprayed Elise in the face while feeding her at the meeting and have woken up somewhat engorged on a couple of mornings. Unfortunately, this seems to be short lived. Despite the tea three times a day, the cookies, the pills and the EXTREME LACK OF CAFFEINE, my boobs feel “empty” again.

This might just be them regulating, but it’s hard to  understand why “regulating” means not producing enough for my babies. The girls are starting to wake up earlier and earlier for an extra feeding at night to make up for the lack of food during their bedtime feeding. They usually sleep from 8 p.m. to 7 a.m. straight through with no feeding. Over the past week, they’ve woken up at 6 a.m., 5:30, 5, 4:30 and finally 3:30 last night.

I am getting super stressed about it, which I know doesn’t help. The horror with Kramer the Kitty is probably doing a number on me, too. I stopped taking the pill three days ago, but so far no change.

I refuse to believe I’ll have to give up breastfeeding. If the girls were 11 months old, I might not feel as adamant, I might not feel such a profound sense of impending loss and failure. But they’re only seven months old and I’m not ready to give up — not for them or for me.

I just don’t understand. Why is my body failing me?

Why is this happening? Is it really that I had such a negative reaction to the pill and those antibiotics from my rotten tooth? Why aren’t all these lactogenic measures “sticking”? Will I have to keep up with these crazy fixes and potions until I wean the babies? How much more do I have to try to make this work?

I’m not worried about the fact that my right breast is approximately one cup size larger than my left.

Nor am I freaking out about my nipples still looking like something out of “National Geographic.”

I am freaking out about my supply. As in, breastmilk supply.

I’ve had many moments of doubt and fear throughout my time breastfeeding. I mean, I’m breastfeeding twins. When I told people I planned to breastfeed my twins, everyone all but laughed and told me that you can’t. You can’t breastfeed twins. But I’ve known people that have, and I’m doing it, so . . . 

So. Now I see where the doubt creeps in.

You see, about three weeks ago I decided to start taking the mini pill. First, you must know that I hate the pill. Hate it. I swore to myself I’d NEVER go back on hormonal birth control ever ever ever again. But the diaphragm has been causing, um, issues. I believe I may have a bit of a latex/rubber sensitivity. That’s all I’ll say about that. So I needed something else, and the mini pill was my best option.

The first week, I broke out ALL OVER  my face and pretty much felt like a pubescent 13 year old all over again. By week two, I was picking fights, including arguments over text message, with my husband for no good reason. I was angry with random things like dust and wind and forks. Basically, that little dose of hormones was turning me into a raving lunatic. I started to doubt my decision about this whole “pill thing.”

Then, during this third week, I noticed the worst side effect of all: My breastmilk supply dwindled.

I’m freaking the fuck out about it. To boost my supply, over the past few days I have done the following:

• started taking Fenugreek, three pills, three times a day
• drinking Mother’s Milk tea two to three times a day
• been eating lactation cookies, four per day
• added a pumping session in the morning
• forced an extra nursing session 
• cut caffeine to just one diet Coke instead of three

Tonight sent me over the edge. The girls nursed for less than a minute for their bedtime feeding before my milk ran out. 

I’m devastated.

This fucking stupid pill and that stupid round of antibiotics for a goddamned rotten tooth that STILL isn’t fixed (another story entirely — yes, there’s more) is fucking up almost seven months worth of hard work and dedication. 

FUCK.

If I can get my shit together early enough, I plan to attend a La Leche League meeting tomorrow morning (from 10 a.m. – 12 p.m. Seriously, two hours? With babies?)

Oh Boobs, please don’t fail me now.

. . . come solid poops.

I saw Althea doing “the shit face”: lips puckered outward, the rims of the eyes bright red, eyebrows highlighted with pushing out the latest intestinal concoction. I promptly took her to the changing pad and was shocked at what I saw — so shocked that I called to Chris to come take a look at Althea’s accomplishment.

It was a pea-green, semi-solid poop the consistency of instant mashed potatoes.

Chris frowned — not out of disappointment, but out of sadness. For this marked a major milestone in our babies’ development: Not only was the poop turning solid, but before long, it would smell, too.

Luckily, it’s still tinged with the regular yeasty-sweet smell of a breastfed baby’s poop. But considering we tried carrots today (which they LOVED), we might be in for a completely different diaper experience by Friday.

I fit into my old size six pants.

Okay, so “fitting” is a stretch. However, I can stuff my multi-layered ass into the pants and zip them up without splitting any seams or breaking any buttons. 

Okay, so I only tried one particular pair of size sixes.

And I didn’t dare bend or sit.

There was muffin top involved.

BUT.

I got them on, goddammit. And that counts for something.

I think I’m about seven pounds away from comfortably fitting into some of my old pants, and realistically I’m 12 pounds away from being in the neighborhood of my pre-pregnancy weight.

I really don’t try hard enough, though. I do work out four to five days a week. I even started doing a pseudo-jog thing while pushing the girls in a totally non-jogging stroller.

(You must understand that I am not a runner. I am not athletic. I don’t “do” exercise in the way that some people “do” exercise. But I do it because I have to and ultimately my ass heart thanks me for it.)

But I don’t consistently watch what I eat. I have ice cream every single night in serving sizes that defy any caloric quantification, which I stuff into a tiny ramekin because it makes me believe that I’m eating less than I actually am. I eat bacon, mayonnaise and cheese, but insist on buying 1% milk and pouring it over mulch-in-a-bowl cereal for breakfast. As I type this, I have splatters of oil all over my shirt from tonight’s dinner — something called “chicken-fried chicken,” which I prepared with homemade buttermilk ranch dressing. 

And served it over organic spring salad greens.

I used to eat like shit. But I’d only eat, like, four bites of shit. I just can’t do that anymore, not now that I’m trying to, you know, nourish two babies and all.

Sigh.

As I run errands at Burlington and Kohl’s and Target, I’ve started eyeballing bathing suits too. Not bikinis, mind you, because although my stomach is less scary than I thought it would look, it’s still not ready for its beach debut. No, this year will be the Year of the Tankini. And boy, those things are uuugggglyyyyy. The patterns are horrifying. And breast support? Nada! My boobs look like lactating pancakes underneath swaths of Lycra-psychedelic-grandma prints. Since I’ve never had boobs before in my life, I’m not sure if this is normal.

(Here’s a visual for you: Hold up a flip-flop to your breast area. That’s what my boobs will look like after I stop breast feeding.)

Anyhow, what I’m finding interesting about this whole post-partum body experience (which is not unlike an out-of-body experience) is that, while I have every right to be — nay, I should be self-conscious about what has happened to my body, I just kind of don’t. I have brazenly stripped off my shirt and pumped or breastfed in front of friends and family, knowing full well that they see my bizarre-o stomach shape and stretch marks, but I just haven’t cared enough to be modest. It’s almost as though I defy anyone to say shit to me because if I can carry 13 pounds of people in my uterus, I pretty much have the right to throttle anyone who dares say anything about my body.

Well, we took the plunge into the world of solids.

Really, rice cereal at this stage shouldn’t be considered a solid. It’s more like an eerie-smelling mass of pasty goop that bears no resemblance to rice or cereal.

Rice cereal, neither rice nor cereal

We strapped the girls into their big-girl highchairs. This part was pretty exciting, actually. The highchairs seem pretty comfy and sturdy (they’re the Graco Contempo highchairs). All of the parts are nicely constructed and are easy to assemble and clean.

Elise was SO EXCITED to be in the highchair. She was dancing and kicking her little feet. 

The girls in their highchairs

Elise's dancing feet

Even Althea was in a jovial mood.

Althea happy about solids

But, as usual, Althea quickly got VERY SERIOUS about solids.

Althea very serious about solids

Althea was interested in grabbing the spoon and bringing it to her mouth. Then again, she’s interested in grabbing my ears and bringing my face toward her mouth too. When she tasted this new “meal,” she wasn’t particularly impressed.

It's mixed with breastmilk. JUST EAT IT.

Elise wasn’t impressed either, but she did well with sucking on the cereal and swallowing it. 

Elise's first bite of cereal

There was quite a bit left over in the end. (Before you freak out, I know not to save leftovers — for the babies. I, on the other hand, plan to use this leftover mush to kill off the ant colonies in our yard.)

Leftovers

Today was also my first Mother’s Day (one year since we announced the pregnancy to our parents, too). It also marked my first time away from the girls overnight. Yes, I shamelessly abandoned my children to go eat too much, drink too much and stay up late with one my best girl friends. This meant no nursing, which meant a lot of pumping. Thank god I have the Pump to End all Pumps, right?

Wrong! When “they” say that a pump is not as efficient as a baby at extracting milk, “they” are right. I ended up with not one, not two, not even three or four, but five clogged ducts this weekend. I discovered that when you massage out a clogged duct, it’s not really a massaging motion that frees the clog — it’s more of a violent-smashing-to-smithereens motion that will get the clog out.

Boobs are pretty resilient, as it turns out.

On the plus side, I did get an idea for how much milk I’m producing. I already suspected that the morning feedings were important, especially now that the girls sleep for 8 or 9 hours straight after going down for the night. But after pumping this morning, I realized just how big that meal is. I pumped — get this — 16 ounces this morning. Yes, 16! That’s two cups! One whole pound! Go Team Boobs!

I’ve gotten a lot of comments saying how helpful it is for me to post about development and milestones and I feel like I don’t do enough of that anymore. So here’s a five-month update.

Personalities

People always ask if the girls have different personalities. A month ago, I would’ve said they’re pretty similar. But over the past few weeks, they’ve really started to show differences.

Elise is our clown. She loves grinning and giggling and playing. She doesn’t cry much at all, doesn’t complain about a thing. I’ve woken up to find her in a blown-out diaper in the morning, but not a peep of protest. She just grins.

Althea, on the other hand, is more serious. I’d hardly call her a high-maintenance baby, but if someone’s going to cry, it’ll probably be her. If she wants attention, she’ll cough and whine. If she’s uncomfortable, she’ll let you know. Again, though, hardly a nuisance.

Neither of them cry more than maybe 20 minutes a day total. Seriously, they’re amazing babies. The other day, we were held up for over an hour and a half at the doctor’s office, during nap time, stuck in their stroller/car seats, and Althea fussed for probably 30 seconds total. I can’t complain.

Sleeping

We’re finally over the crescendo of torture after the vaccinations and the girls are back to waking just once a night for a feeding, sometime between 1:30 and 3 a.m., with the occasional two-feeding nights.

One quirk: After a few warm nights where we didn’t use their Halo sleep sacks to go to bed, we discovered that it affects Althea’s ability to go to sleep. She has an almost disturbing obsession with sucking and chewing on cloth, so having the sleep sack there to soothe herself makes a huge difference.

Both girls generally nap well. Neither of them are into pacifiers anymore.

(Also, can I just add that it’s kind of annoying how many people ask if they’re sleeping through the night? They’re infants, guys. There are two of them. Do you think they’re sleeping through the night?)

Schedule

Yep, we’re on a schedule and have had the same one since they were 12 weeks old. The girls determined their “schedule” and I just embraced it and make it routine. It’s roughly:

8 a.m. – wake, eat, play

9:30 a.m. – nap in swings

11:30 a.m. – wake, lunch, play

1:00 p.m. – nap in crib

3:00 p.m. – wake, eat, play

5/5:30 p.m. – cat nap in swings

6:00 p.m. – wake, eat, play

7:45 p.m. – bath if it’s bath night (every other night)

8:15/8:30 p.m. – eat, bedtime

Everything is give or take a half-hour. Sometimes the schedule gets thrown off and it’s totally okay. The girls “know” what time it is and will doze off wherever they are, even if it’s in the Baby Bjorn in the middle of a crowd of people.

Eating

I’m eating every 2 – 2.5 hours, usually a handful of candy or another freakin’ sandwich.

Oh, you mean the girls? They’re eating roughly every 3.5 – 4 hours during the daytime, a little more frequently in the evening and every 5 – 6 hours at night. They’re seriously distracted at this age and have been since four months. It seems there’s always something more interesting over their shoulder, even in a quiet room. A box in the corner? The movement of a dust mote? Venus aligning with Jupiter? Fascinating, let’s take a look!

The latest twist? Althea chomping on my nipple. Not all the time, but enough to remind me just how vulnerable a position I’m really in while nursing.

Looking ahead, I’m not excited about starting solids. Ugh. It all just seems like a massive, time-sucking hassle. Breastfeeding? Six minutes and the girls have Hoovered my boobs dry. Solids just seem so complicated and slow.

Playtime

I bought a couple of used Exersaucer-type toys from a neighbor. The girls seem to enjoy them well enough, but mostly they get frustrated because they can’t reach the toys to put them in their mouths.

Can't. Reach. Toy!

And speaking of which, everything goes in the mouth. Blankets, toys, fingers, shoulders, hair, earrings, necklaces, elbows. If it’s in their hands, it’s in their mouths next. They love grabbing their feet and sucking on their toes.

Incidentally, our house now resembles a daycare — one I’d never take my kids to.

Daycare? Nope, my living room.

Milestones

They’re both laughing more frequently these days, especially with repeated zerberts or other baby-friendly noise applied to the belly. And just because they can’t crawl doesn’t mean they’re not mobile. Both are rolling over like little burritos. We plop them down on a play mat or blanket and before we have a chance to blink, someone has rolled several times, causing Chris to yell, “Oh shit, baby on tile!”

They reach, bat and grab at toys, no problem.

My unofficial weighing method (weigh self without baby; hold baby and weigh self with baby; do the math) has them both at about 14 pounds.

The one thing they don’t do much is babble. Elise talks a little bit after eating. She’s even started letting out the occasional shriek of happiness. Althea will sometimes recite her vowels (“aahhhwwayyyweeeewooowhooooooooo”), but they’re quiet babies. I’ve read that being in a bilingual house will often delay speech. We speak Pig Latin and English, so . . .

I’m not super worried yet. I think there’s an inordinate amount of pressure put on babies/parents for kids to hit milestones on the exact day they’re supposed to reach them.

Today, the girls and I had a day full of firsts. We started out with their first social event – a three-year-old’s birthday party. Chris put it perfectly: There was a time, not too long ago, where the idea of a party on Saturday meant something very different. This party started at 11 a.m. and involved delicious food, new friends and familiar faces, no booze and a lot of babies. 

At the party, we finally, finally got a picture of me holding both babies at once. See, I never got that photo at the hospital of me in a wheelchair with two babies all bundled up in blankets like little sausages. But today, Chris snapped a pic with his camera phone of me holding the girls. See? They are my children!

After the party, we stopped by the mecca of all things baby, Babies R Us. Here, we experienced another first: changing diapers in a store. And not just that, but nursing both babies in a store, too.

If you find yourself in this situation at a Babies R Us, the Mother’s Room is not quite the clean place to nurse/change baby that it claims to be. I am not a squeamish/germ-phobe type by any means (as evidenced by a previous photo of me nursing on a public bathroom floor), but the Diaper Champ in there was disgusting. It had blue splatter stains in it. Blue. How does that happen? Here’s where having our own changing pad came in handy. That, and hand sanitizer. I don’t have pics. (I will say, though, that if you’re going to run out of wipes in a public place, Babies R Us is the place to do it.)

From here, I insisted that we go get photos with the Easter Bunny. The girls were too young for Santa photos at Christmas, but the Easter Bunny? Just terrifying enough to warrant a special trip out to the mall. Surprise, surprise — the photo came out pretty nice, all things considered. 

What an eventful day. But! It’s not over yet. After all the activity, I knew the girls needed a thorough bath. Everything started out smoothly. I even remarked to myself how the girls are growing up so quickly, how they don’t cry when they’re in the water or shit in the tub anymore.

Then?

Oh yeah, you guessed it. I was getting Elise dried off when all of a sudden, she let loose. She crapped all over the towel on our bed. Sigh. I went to wipe her up when she started shitting some more. Dammit. Now we had a situation. I had to get another towel and several more wipes. I cradled her while setting out the new towel, her bum resting on my forearm….. and BLAM-O she shit on me. Not just “oops, got a little poop on my hand.” No, we’re talking an explosion that splattered all over my shirt and shorts and required another bath. For both of us.

No pics there, either. Thankfully.

Engorgement that wakes you up anyway. 3:45 a.m. and my boobs woke me up SCREAMING. They feel and actually LOOK like bags of frozen peas. Bump-eeee! Ow. Yes, I am committing a breastfeeding sin by pumping, but I am in So. Much. Discomfort. I can’t get back to sleep.

On Valentine’s Day, we took our first family field trip to the botanical gardens in town. 

Elise was STOKED. 

Elise smiling at the gardens

 Althea, on the other hand, was NOT FUCKING AROUND. She was serious about her flowers. 

Althea, serious about flowers

Most of our photos are individual pics with the babies. That’s a problem with having two babies — you end up with a bunch of single parent/baby pics. There seems to be no evidence that Chris and I are actually married and living in the same house together with the babies.

Chris & Althea by the bay

Me & Elise by the bay

Then we ran into some nice folks who offered to take a photo of all of us. Our first family portrait! Also, the realization that Elise really likes eating the Baby Bjorn.

Our first family portrait

True to their schedule, the girls totally passed out in their Bjorns at about 2pm. They stayed this way for about 45 minutes. People around us found this highly amusing.

Elise sleeping in the Bjorn

Althea sleeping in the Bjorn

Then, it happened: They got hungry and started to fuss. What to do??? I’ve never nursed in public before. The median age at the gardens was approximately 79, give or take a decade (it’s snowbird season where we live). Whipping out a boob in front of Harriet or Walter could prove fatal for their tenuous tickers.

So we scouted around and found a public restroom. It was my first time nursing in a public restroom. Notice I say “first time.” Because it’s bound to happen again.

I am clearly not worried about germs.

First time nursing in a public restroom

Oh yeah, and there were loads of beautiful flowers.

Orchid at the gardens

Oh yeah baby. Girls slept from 9pm – 6:15am. I woke up with milk coming out of my eyeballs.

Girls looking adorable in the morning