This is my follow-up post to the breastfeeding story, so using a quote from the movie The Waterboy as a title may seem weird. That’s because it is weird. My only explanation is that the first thought in my mind when re-opening this recent chapter in my life was, “Pumping is the devil.”

So here’s what happened: I went home from the pediatrician (who for the sake of a recap had given me the ninth or tenth conflicting opinion on nursing since Will was born mere days before) both resolved to keep pumping and resigned that the odds were stacked against successful baby-to-boob breastfeeding. I do want to note that I still to this day have no idea how accurate those perceived odds were, but I remember that feeling of being pulled in nine different directions and simply not knowing where to go next.

The logical next step was to keep pumping, and I did. I pumped in the middle of the night, stashed granola bars by the bedside for an energy boost and to rev up my supply. I was able to pump enough for a normal baby, even without waking up every two hours as suggested by a couple of (heartless?) lactation consultants. Let me repeat that: enough for a NORMAL baby. A baby who was going to drink the standard daily ounce-age of a newborn. Not a baby who was going to chow down on 30 or more ounces of breastmilk a day.

When I realized that my supply was level at about 28 ounces (on a good day), while Will’s supply was actually going up, I felt defeated. What was the point of all this pumping, of waking up when Will was still sleeping peacefully, of turning on Chelsea Lately and watching the same show twice (what else is on at 3 in the morning?) just to give my baby only some? Why couldn’t I give him all?

I half-heartedly tried him back on the breast a few times, but it had been so traumatic in the hospital, and I’d gotten very little in the way of effective advice since then. The ordeal of pulling Will to me only to have him back off (the milk was coming too fast, then sometimes too slow, or he was biting and I was unable to relax at the pain of it), whining noisily…then shuffling to the fridge to warm up some freshly pumped milk, feeding him, and having to go pour formula to truly satiate his appetite before pumping again…it was demoralizing, upsetting, and a waste of SO MUCH TIME together.

Of course, the point was that I wanted to give Will breastmilk as long as I could in the beginning. I knew full well that formula was fine, but I had to draw a line that I was comfortable with. I had planned to breastfeed; I could only give up that plan when I felt that it was truly dysfunctional to force it to continue.

So I pumped. And I pumped. And then Will “woke up,” the way everyone says your newborn wakes up at five or six weeks. Dave was long gone, back at work, and suddenly I had a baby who wanted to be held, entertained, and put to sleep every hour or so. Theoretically, a super-napping baby is fabulous, but my pumping schedule was now disrupted; plus, I couldn’t pump while I held Will (and don’t believe any hands-free pumping mechanism that tells you it will solve this problem), so I started missing pumping sessions during the day. A lot of them.

Now my hormones were totally confused. My body didn’t know it it was supposed to be weaning a baby (a really fun hormonal roller coaster unto itself), feeding a baby (in which case it wanted to get rid of that milk NOW), or, I don’t know, entering a 4H contest at the county fair. When I did get to pump, mostly in the evenings when Dave got home, I had lost a little milk supply and some of my pain tolerance, so these less frequent sessions were more painful, both physically and mentally.

Also, I had a newly alert baby on my hands, so now was not the time to be waking up throughout the night to pump. And then weaning throughout the day. Oh, just thinking about it makes me feel itchy.

The looooooong and the not-so-short of it is, I was strongly disliking the whole process, especially when I realized that there had only been one day that I had fed Will with breastmilk exclusively, and not for lack of trying. Then I woke up one morning with a red mark on my boob, a fever of 102 degrees, and a baby who was arching his back and uncharacteristically getting fussy.

I went to the same pediatrician who had told me she supported-but-only-to-a-certain-extent-here’s-some-formula my attempt to breastfeed. She diagnosed Will with a milk protein sensitivity and told me if I was going to continue to breastfeed, I should cut out all dairy. OK, I said. And do you know what this red spot is on my breast? She told me to make an appointment with my OB for the next day.

That night, Dave and I bought a bunch of dodgy-looking dairy-free items at the grocery store to help me face this new nursing challenge. The next morning, I woke up feeling even worse. The OB confirmed what I’d guessed: mastitis. Four antibiotics a day, around the clock, for ten days. “The antibiotic is safe for the baby, though,” my NP reassured me.

By this time, the mastitis (a rather common affliction among nursing moms, I’ve gathered since–it’s a breast infection that causes flu-y symptoms) had flared up in both breasts and made simple acts such as, uh, walking–sitting–uncomfortable. I attached the pump, determined to keep on keepin’ on. The phone rang. It was my sister.

“Yeah, it’s mastitis,” I updated her. “But the good news is I can still pump.” I started to cry. “And the antibiotics won’t hurt Will.” Crying a little harder now. “And I’m going on a dairy-free diet.” Almost full-fledged sobs.

“J,” my sister said. “I nursed my kids for a year and a half, almost two years. It worked. But sometimes? It doesn’t work. And I think in your case, it’s just not working.”

Just like that, I poured out eveything to her. “I feel like I’m going through menopause symptoms every single day because I can’t pump,” I wept, “and I can barely move, and I’m so scared that pumping’s going to hurt more than ever, and Will and I just can’t figure out how to nurse effectively, and I have to hold him all the time…” I went on and on.

Then I let go. It was sad to see my plan sail away, hard to recognize that I couldn’t MAKE THIS WORK. It was also an intense relief, and to be quite honest, it improved my relationship with Will on the spot. I didn’t dread feeding him anymore. I felt competent. Things got easier.

I “plan” to breastfeed again, although I don’t think this experience has taught me anything when it comes to that particular activity. After all, Will wasn’t good at it, and I wasn’t good at it, but I don’t know if that’s what resulted in the non-starter situation, or if that was the scapegoat. What will be different? My instincts. I had none this time around, so trusting them was a moot goal. But this time? They’re honed and ready to be flexed. I’m prepared to shut out the people around me and tune in to my baby, so that whatever happens, I’ll know it was the path I chose, every step of the way.

In other words: I can do it!*

*Also a paraphrase from The Waterboy. Hunh, I don’t know if there is a movie less appropriate for a post about breastfeeding.

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