Why I Chose To Feed My Babies Formula

I have taken a very long time to sit down and write this.  In a recent attempt to express myself on Facebook, I got cold feet and deleted my status immediately.  About two minutes later, my phone buzzed, and I received an essay from a good friend, thanking me for speaking up, sharing her own traumatic experiences and her decisions that lead her to be swollen up with guilt, yet essentially saved her child's life. She urged me to tell my story when I felt ready, because she believed many other women needed to hear it, just as she did. 

So here it goes: 

Breast Is Not Always Best; Why I Chose To Feed My Babies Formula

From the first day I found out I was pregnant with my first child, my phone was ringing off the hook with insurance interviews, surveys, doctor surveys, parenting surveys and the like. My web browser and email flooded with options to complete a survey for free samples, and then I had ongoing interviews with each check-up with my OB, and eventually my pediatrician.  One of the main questions I was always asked was, "Formula or breast-feeding?"  Proudly, I would hold my head high and brag, "I plan to breastfeed exclusively."  It just made sense.  And it's free.  It's what my body was made for, and I believe more than many people I know that our beautiful bodies are incredible machines that can do incredible things, if we give them the chance.

I packed away all my free formula samples that flooded my mailbox.  I received baby bottles as gifts, and threw them down in a drawer and never took a second look at them.  I was creating life, and I was anxious to see what my body could accomplish next.  I spent hours on parenting and baby websites reading in-depth articles of child development, and understanding infant poop.  I did absolutely no research on breastfeeding, I just knew that my body could do anything.

When the day finally came, I was stocked up on nursing paraphernalia, and I headed off to the hospital already sporting my Motherhood nursing bra I specifically chose for labor and my first breastfeeding bonding time.  

A few hours later my baby girl was born, and I was attempting to feed her for the very first time.  Those first few hours are hazy in my memory, due to blood-loss, anemia and pain medications from a severe tear.  But I remember smiling ear to ear, and giggling as I helped nourish my dependent, precious little munchkin.  I knew we would be naturals at breastfeeding, and I would finally get to experience the breastfeeding high that so many women described.

Then enters the breastfeeding consultant.  A stout, grey-haired woman with a harsh voice, who immediately told me I was doing it wrong, and began laying her hands all over my precious peanut.  I was surprised at her abrasiveness, but was determined to do my best, so I did everything she said, and my stress level rose for the first time.  I became anxious that if I was doing it wrong, my baby would starve.  I became harsh to my husband every time the baby would cry, and he would take a second to stretch before delivering the baby to my hospital bed.  In my mind, in that second of hearing my baby cry, she was shriveling before my eyes, choking over her desperation for nutrition.  In that moment of hearing her cry I was the worst mother on the planet.

Of course all mothers have feelings of inadequacy, and are often overwhelmed with their new responsibilities.  It is a part of how our brains are wired.  The mess of hormones that runs through our bodies is determined to make our baby our number-one priority.  And I accepted this as fact, and continued to breastfeed my baby.  Within a couple of days, my husband began to worry as he would watch me become an emotional, sobbing mess every time the baby was hungry.  A few days later, I would anticipate the baby waking from her hunger, would experience let-down and would immediately crumble into a pitiful worm, begging release from my responsibilities.  

We argued about pulling the formula samples out of the bottom drawer and giving the baby a bottle.  My husband threw all my words, once spoken with pride, right back at me.  "Breast is best," he would say.  Eventually he would make the baby a bottle, settle down to feed her, and I would pretend to sleep, while my mind would race with self-defeated thoughts, "I'm a failure.  I'm a horrible mother.  I'm choosing to give my daughter a second-rate life.  She won't be as smart as her peers.  She's going to get sick more often.  All because I am not strong.  All because I am a weak failure."  And I would cry, silently, until everyone was back asleep.

Each time I gave my daughter a bottle, my determination to breastfeed would double.  Until I would experience let-down, then I would once again crumble into a wreck, twice as depressed as before.  A few weeks after my daughter's birth, I opened my weekly email to read about her development.  The opening statement was, "By this point you are probably breastfeeding your little one in your sleep!  Great job!"  I don't remember reading any further, because the frustrated tears in my eyes were once again affirming the fact that I was a horrible mother, who still couldn't get my infant to properly latch, and who couldn't feed her a drop without melting into an embarrassing display of self-pity.

Yet I continued to breastfeed.  By the end of the first month my husband was almost used to coming home to me with swollen eyes, deep, exhausted sobs, taking the baby away from me, and sending me to bed.  What he didn't know, until a short time ago, was that the majority of those tears were not due to the physical pain of breastfeeding, but to something else entirely.  We've all heard stories of people finding babies abandoned in dumpsters, and wonder, with furrowed brows, "How could anyone do that?"  Well, at a month post-partum, I found myself empathizing with the mothers in those stories.  I could actually picture myself leaving my baby, alone, in a dumpster.  I had flashes of images , leaving my precious child alone somewhere, and walking away for good.  And it terrified me.  I would clutch her as tightly as I possibly could, and I would sob until she was finished eating, my husband would whisk her away, and I could finally relax.  I loved her when she was not in my arms.  Guilt filled my soul.

At the end of her first four weeks of life, I told my husband, "I am of no use to anyone like this.  Every time I breastfeed, I just can't handle life.  How can I nurture our daughter if I can't even function?"  And he went strait out, and bought our first can of formula, and a breast pump.  I began pumping faithfully, and every single time I did, my self-esteem would plummet.  Self-depreciating thoughts filled me, but when my daughter was safely in her crib, I could put on a movie, and ignore my emotions.  I watched a lot of movies.  The more that I pumped, the less and less milk I would produce.  It could have been a reaction to my prescribed birth control, but I truly believe that I willed my milk to dry up.  As I said previously, I believe our bodies can do incredible things.  And I do believe that my body understood before I did, the mental destruction that occurs when I experience let-down and express milk.

I will never forget the first bottle that my daughter quickly devoured.  The peace that I felt while watching her get the nourishment that she needed.  My mind was clear.  Finally, I was able to feel the emotional reward that new moms always describe.  For the first time in her little life, I was able to love my daughter.  

Our relationship finally began to flourish.  Oh, how I loved that baby!  We went on walks to the park, would lay on a blanket by the pond early in the morning and I would fall in love with her more and more every time she gave me that satisfied look of true happiness and trust.

I continued to beat myself up about not being able to handle breastfeeding.  I made excuses about why I couldn't do it.  I told everyone it was my OB's fault for giving me a bad birth control pill.  It was easier to lay blame on someone else, than to admit that for some reason I can not mentally handle the act of breastfeeding.  I played the victim.  And I would never feed my baby a bottle in public, because in my eyes, every single look was a look of ridicule.  Even though I knew in my heart that I was giving my baby the best that I could give, I felt as if I was cheating her out of what she deserved.

Months later, I read a Facebook post from a breastfeeding advocacy page, about a woman who experienced extreme depression with let-down.  I read her story, and everything she said was exactly my story.  This woman had sought out doctors and professionals all around the nation in her desire to continue breastfeeding her child.  They concluded that in a rare amount of women, during the experience of let-down, there is a complete blockage of dopamine to the brain.  No dopamine = severe depression.  Finally, I was given validation.  I might be rare, but I am not just a weakling.  The woman I read about chose to be safely medicated, so that she could continue breastfeeding, but I was so far gone, I had no desire to go back.  I loved my formula, my daughter loved her bottles.

Fastforward to the birth of my second daughter.  Two years later, and I hadn't ever shared my story.  In the discussion to breastfeed, my husband and I had agreed to give breastfeeding a shot, but if it proved an emotional burden, that it was no longer do-or-die.  I breastfed my newborn for her first week, in which I would, once again, crumble to pieces every time let-down reared it's ugly head.  I decided to attempt to pump, and after a week of crying through every pumping session, I reached the point that I couldn't physically raise the flange to my breast.  

That very day my husband told me, "You are an incredible mom, you have revelation for our children, and I trust you completely."  He went strait to the store for a can of formula without a second thought.  It was that very day that I decided I am a proud formula mom.  I am grateful every single day that I live in a time where formula is readily available.  I no longer hide in the car or the nursing room to bottle-feed my baby.  I love that she can hold her own bottle while I stretch in the morning.  I love that her big sister will fetch her bottle for her when it falls from the high-chair.  And as for all those statistics which prove that formula-fed children get sick more often, or don't develop as quickly, my toddler has beat every single one of them.  She is just as bright and clever as all of her friends, no matter what or how any of them were fed.  

Both of my daughters are bright, clever, curious, active, inquisitive children, who are equal to their peers in every way.  I thought I was giving them a secondary life when I chose to formula feed them, but the truth is that I gave them the best life possible.  I chose a life for them with a healthy, happy mother.  I chose to love them more than I loved the ideals of how I planned to raise them.  I chose what was best for our family.  Breastmilk might be one of nature's greatest accomplishments, but by no means should any woman degrade herself under the premise that "breast is best."  With deep consideration, every mother has the power to truly understand what is the best for their own family.  No one should tell you different.