Feeding
We’re hitting a kind of stride, Lucia and I. We have fewer fussy days than splendid smiley ones; we have a quasi-schedule of naps and playtime. We’ve even been getting out of the house together. And I’ve been getting lots of work done. It’s been a good week.
The weak link in all of this is the feeding. For weeks we’d been doing wonderfully—and then, on Tuesday, for an unknown reason, Lucia embarked on a one-day nursing strike. She refused to breastfeed, would scream when she got anywhere near the breast, and generally did her best to give her mama a nervous breakdown. I pumped and bottle-fed her all day. The next day, she was back to normal. Who knows why it happened?
In any case, I worry quite a bit about whether she’s eating enough, whether I’m producing enough, whether her naps are too long, whether she should be eating more frequently, for longer periods of time, and so on and so on. I feel mildly—well, not mildly; fully—obsessed with her eating, and each time she latches on and nurses successfully I feel a rush of relief. I don’t know why I’m so worried about it. She’s clearly thriving—she’s happy as can be, active and playful, and nicely filling out her three-month outfits. An unofficial weighing on our bathroom scale this week put her at eleven pounds.
So we continue on with our routine, generally smoothly, until a day like Tuesday happens. Andrew can’t understand why her breast-refusal upsets me so much; the way he sees it, as long she’s eating, and as long as what she’s eating is breast milk, then what’s the big deal? But it does seem like a big deal to me, like something is awry in the mama/baby synergy, in my ability to provide what she needs.
Fortunately, such troubled days are rare, giving way to days when breastfeeding seems to absolutely delight her, when she’ll pull away and look up at me and give a thrilled little cry—which I’m sure translates to “What wonderful milk, mama! How fun it is to eat!”—before nuzzling in once more.
The weak link in all of this is the feeding. For weeks we’d been doing wonderfully—and then, on Tuesday, for an unknown reason, Lucia embarked on a one-day nursing strike. She refused to breastfeed, would scream when she got anywhere near the breast, and generally did her best to give her mama a nervous breakdown. I pumped and bottle-fed her all day. The next day, she was back to normal. Who knows why it happened?
In any case, I worry quite a bit about whether she’s eating enough, whether I’m producing enough, whether her naps are too long, whether she should be eating more frequently, for longer periods of time, and so on and so on. I feel mildly—well, not mildly; fully—obsessed with her eating, and each time she latches on and nurses successfully I feel a rush of relief. I don’t know why I’m so worried about it. She’s clearly thriving—she’s happy as can be, active and playful, and nicely filling out her three-month outfits. An unofficial weighing on our bathroom scale this week put her at eleven pounds.
So we continue on with our routine, generally smoothly, until a day like Tuesday happens. Andrew can’t understand why her breast-refusal upsets me so much; the way he sees it, as long she’s eating, and as long as what she’s eating is breast milk, then what’s the big deal? But it does seem like a big deal to me, like something is awry in the mama/baby synergy, in my ability to provide what she needs.
Fortunately, such troubled days are rare, giving way to days when breastfeeding seems to absolutely delight her, when she’ll pull away and look up at me and give a thrilled little cry—which I’m sure translates to “What wonderful milk, mama! How fun it is to eat!”—before nuzzling in once more.
Comments