“That was quick…”. Mourning my milk
My breastfeeding journey wasn’t what I’d call a straightforward one.
The start was hugely confronting, emotional, soul-destroying, humbling and eventually an example of perseverance and strength that in the beginning I’m not sure I realised I had.
Once I made the call that feeding Jude directly wasn’t our reality, I leant into the daily routine of expressing full-time.
In the beginning, it was hourly, building up my milk to a level that could keep up with her appetite. Then three hourly, each day. Grasping the moments between her sleeps, cuddles, time for myself and to put a wash on, to spend the 20 minutes expressing that moving to a hands-free pump allowed (vs 40 before).
Once I went back to work, I squeezed in expressing between focused hours of output. I’d return home from my morning of work in a cafe to first express before I could pause and be still — to have lunch.
On a solo long-haul flight home, I spent 30 minutes in the aeroplane bathroom every 3 hours, pumps doing their work, Jude in my arms or on the changing table, as I sang her songs until the pumps were done.
In the beginning, I built a countdown chart. Crossing off the days I had left until six months — the goal I’d set myself. The commitment I’d made to my little Jude that I’d achieve as a minimum.
Six months until I could take this one additional step off my to-do list. Six months until I would stop losing moments with her, to spend moments with a machine.
Then six months came and went, and I decided that I could keep going. That the routine we had, and the flexibility that working from home provided, meant I really had no reason to not keep going.
Forget the fact that I woke double the times at night (Jude still isn’t one to sleep through) — one half to feed and tend to her, the other to keep up the three-hourly expressing cycle (eventually 5 hourly — thank goodness).
And then, we were approaching nine months, and something in me said, “We’re good”. “We’ve done well”. “It’s time.”
The idea in my head had always been that when solids became more prominent, when Jude was no longer primarily getting nourishment from my milk, but a combination of milk and real food, that then would be the time when I’d feel ready for her to have formula instead.
[She’s a great little eater. She explores all tastes and foods with ease.]
So, I began expanding the window between expressing. Elongating the time between each session. First 4 hours, then 5, 6 and eventually 8.
We headed down into the Lake District of Chile for a family break. I’d gotten to leaving it 8–10 hours overnight, and 2–3 sessions in the day time.
I came back to the AirBnB to put Jude down for her afternoon nap and it struck me — I’d missed my morning expressing session and yet my breasts weren’t anywhere near as engorged as they’d typically been with such a gap between releases.
The lump formed in my throat. The tears flowed down my cheeks.
What had once seemed like such a relentless activity, suddenly became something I mourned.
It wasn’t as though I was losing that intimacy that comes from regular breastfeeding.
It wasn’t as though that moment of contact had been mine and now it was gone.
But nonetheless, the idea that my time of providing for my daughter was ending. That this unique and solos role that I played in her life, that only I could give her as her Mum was done.
The emotions ran wild.
I knew my milk would diminish.
I knew that eventually it would dry and be gone.
But on deciding it was time, I don’t know that I believed it would happen so quickly.
Nor did I expect that I’d feel it so deeply.
But it did.
And for once I felt an emotion, that in my head was perhaps finally one shared with other mothers, no matter how individual my experience had been to date.
And I took a moment to breathe, say goodbye and be mindful.
It was okay to let go. To accept that from here onwards that responsibility had been removed from my shoulders.
I’d done a good job, a great job.
And Jude would still be loved just as strongly. Cared for just as deeply.
Just minus those repetitive expressing sessions. That at first had felt so daunting and all-consuming.
A small note: I am a woman and a mother who believes in the philosophy that fed is best. There is so much pressure, judgment, opinions and perspectives that come with feeding a baby. For some, the journey is easier. For some, the ability to breastfeed is an easy choice. For others, it is very complicated. For others, from the start, it’s not the path they want to choose. My story is just mine, and by no means is a reflection of the choices one should or shouldn’t make, nor the feelings one should or shouldn’t have about this very intimate and individual choice. Do what’s right for you, your little family and your mental health. My story could very easily have been different.
