I love nursing Saleem. We lay in bed for an hour or two before waking up. He starts on one side, falls asleep, nudges me to turn over with him on my chest, landing him on the other side to continue nursing. When he is finally ready to wake up, he sits up, smiles looking at me and says something like: "Hmm! Um.. Aye" enthusiastically. Sometimes we sit as comfortable as we can get, considering he is now too tall to lay in my lap, my hair cascading down my shoulders, rays of sun playing on the wall, gazing in each other's eyes. Sometimes we play games. He "counts" my teeth, pushes on my cheeks to make a "blbrrrr" noise. He points to various parts of the face and waits for me to name them in Russian and English, and smiles when I say "uho", which is "ear" in Russian. Sometimes he hums, while drinking. It is very funny to listen to, and also tickles me if he hums loud enough. I love nursing Saleem... But it has not always been that way.
I wake up afraid of the noise. It is a cough, with an "emmm" on the exhale. I know it well, and I know what it means, and yet, in odd kind of denial, I try to just go back to sleep and ignore it. Cough, cough, emmm. "Honey," says my husband half-asleep, "here." He passes my son to me. He is hungry. This tiny little thing, undoubtedly the best thing I've ever done in my life, depends solely on me for nourishment on me. On my funny, large, awkward breasts with less than adequate nipples. It's me. Just me. No one else is coming to rescue me, there is no flaking out. I have to. And then, I start with the questions. Painfully aware of how ridiculous, redundant I am, partly prepared for my husband to just curse me out instead of answering, I ask for the hundredth time: "What time is it? When did he last eat? What time did I take the Motrin? Can I have any now?" In reality, the answers did not matter. Even if Saleem ate only a few hours ago, he was hungry again, and making an argument of "you only just ate" would not work. Motrin helped a bit, but , clearly, not enough. Even if I took it right this minute, it would not kick in in time to help. I'd feel the familiar adrenalin rush. Something deep inside me braced. A lump lowered from my throat to my chest and stay there. Helpless, with a look of sheep led to the slaughter, I arrange the pillows, get the burp cloth, latch Saleem on and feel the PAIN. "He is hurting me. He is not doing this right. I am not doing this right. Damn the lactation consultant. I did what she said and this is not getting better." I take him off, latch him back on. Instead of the yawn-like open I heard so much about, Saleem barely parts his jaws to latch on and then promptly clenches again. "He is starving. My baby is starving. I know he is." Within minutes I feel the milk leave my breast, I know it's about 4-5 oz. now, Saleem is looking more content. I take him off, because now there is nothing to justify the pain, and he fusses. I know. He is not really done. If I were a good mother, the right kind of mother, I'd just sit there and let him fall asleep. But I can't. I can no longer ignore the razor blade cutting through my nipple. And so I hand him back off to his father, discontented, uncomforted, and surely starving.
I took Motrin, slept, nursed, and took more Motrin. I used ointments and calendula oil on my nipples. I used lanolin. I treated both of us with gentian violet. I used Grapefruit Seed Extract. I took a course of Diflucan. I took Procardia in attempt to stop the spasms until my heart rate got dangerously low. I went to the doctor, I went to the chiropractor, I went to the cranio-sacral therapist, I went to the midwives, I went to the lactation consultant, I went to the La Leche League leaders, I went to the post-partum depression therapist. I was found to have lots of milk, small nipples, overly sensitive skin, a possible yeast infection, some nerve damage, Reynaud's syndrome, a generous case of post-partum crazy, and lots of determination. And I nursed through pain again and again.
I thought I'd take a day off once. I'd pump and let him take the bottle just for one day. After a few hours, around the time Saleem got hungry, my breasts tingled. I felt anxious. I had to let him nurse. My baby was hungry and he did not want the bottle. I felt a compulsion. This internal clock that until this day tells me when he is hungry. This alarm with no snooze or off button. So much for a day off.
One night, I stared in the mirror, Saleem at my breast, my husband standing by with water and Motrin. I did not know where I was. I did not know who I was. The pain was more than I could take. I thought.
One day, I decided to stop pumping. It got better immediately. Later, I would find out that my ample supply of milk was part of the problem. As I allowed Saleem to regulate the cycles of emptying and re-filling of my breasts, the milk let down gentler, without squirting and choking him. He relaxed his jaw. This still did not take away the pain, but it was better.
Another day, I came to understand that he was not perfect. A remarkable child in every way, Saleem was not very good at nursing. And I was OK with that. I stopped hoping that he would figure it out, or get it right. This was my son. My darling baby who accepted me for what I was from the day he was conceived. I had to learn to accept him. Just as he was. And I asked myself: "If he never gets better, can I still do this?" The answer was "yes." And things got even better. And it just stopped being an issue. My body healed. My mild began to heal. My son was handsome, healthy, and gained well. He had amazing personality. He loved to nurse more than anything else in the world, and taking it away from him was not an option.
And yet another day, I suddenly realized, that I love nursing Saleem.
We never take it for granted. He never bites me on purpose. I never refuse a nursing unless I absolutely have to. We know where we've been. And we love where it brought us.
I wake up afraid of the noise. It is a cough, with an "emmm" on the exhale. I know it well, and I know what it means, and yet, in odd kind of denial, I try to just go back to sleep and ignore it. Cough, cough, emmm. "Honey," says my husband half-asleep, "here." He passes my son to me. He is hungry. This tiny little thing, undoubtedly the best thing I've ever done in my life, depends solely on me for nourishment on me. On my funny, large, awkward breasts with less than adequate nipples. It's me. Just me. No one else is coming to rescue me, there is no flaking out. I have to. And then, I start with the questions. Painfully aware of how ridiculous, redundant I am, partly prepared for my husband to just curse me out instead of answering, I ask for the hundredth time: "What time is it? When did he last eat? What time did I take the Motrin? Can I have any now?" In reality, the answers did not matter. Even if Saleem ate only a few hours ago, he was hungry again, and making an argument of "you only just ate" would not work. Motrin helped a bit, but , clearly, not enough. Even if I took it right this minute, it would not kick in in time to help. I'd feel the familiar adrenalin rush. Something deep inside me braced. A lump lowered from my throat to my chest and stay there. Helpless, with a look of sheep led to the slaughter, I arrange the pillows, get the burp cloth, latch Saleem on and feel the PAIN. "He is hurting me. He is not doing this right. I am not doing this right. Damn the lactation consultant. I did what she said and this is not getting better." I take him off, latch him back on. Instead of the yawn-like open I heard so much about, Saleem barely parts his jaws to latch on and then promptly clenches again. "He is starving. My baby is starving. I know he is." Within minutes I feel the milk leave my breast, I know it's about 4-5 oz. now, Saleem is looking more content. I take him off, because now there is nothing to justify the pain, and he fusses. I know. He is not really done. If I were a good mother, the right kind of mother, I'd just sit there and let him fall asleep. But I can't. I can no longer ignore the razor blade cutting through my nipple. And so I hand him back off to his father, discontented, uncomforted, and surely starving.
I took Motrin, slept, nursed, and took more Motrin. I used ointments and calendula oil on my nipples. I used lanolin. I treated both of us with gentian violet. I used Grapefruit Seed Extract. I took a course of Diflucan. I took Procardia in attempt to stop the spasms until my heart rate got dangerously low. I went to the doctor, I went to the chiropractor, I went to the cranio-sacral therapist, I went to the midwives, I went to the lactation consultant, I went to the La Leche League leaders, I went to the post-partum depression therapist. I was found to have lots of milk, small nipples, overly sensitive skin, a possible yeast infection, some nerve damage, Reynaud's syndrome, a generous case of post-partum crazy, and lots of determination. And I nursed through pain again and again.
I thought I'd take a day off once. I'd pump and let him take the bottle just for one day. After a few hours, around the time Saleem got hungry, my breasts tingled. I felt anxious. I had to let him nurse. My baby was hungry and he did not want the bottle. I felt a compulsion. This internal clock that until this day tells me when he is hungry. This alarm with no snooze or off button. So much for a day off.
One night, I stared in the mirror, Saleem at my breast, my husband standing by with water and Motrin. I did not know where I was. I did not know who I was. The pain was more than I could take. I thought.
One day, I decided to stop pumping. It got better immediately. Later, I would find out that my ample supply of milk was part of the problem. As I allowed Saleem to regulate the cycles of emptying and re-filling of my breasts, the milk let down gentler, without squirting and choking him. He relaxed his jaw. This still did not take away the pain, but it was better.
Another day, I came to understand that he was not perfect. A remarkable child in every way, Saleem was not very good at nursing. And I was OK with that. I stopped hoping that he would figure it out, or get it right. This was my son. My darling baby who accepted me for what I was from the day he was conceived. I had to learn to accept him. Just as he was. And I asked myself: "If he never gets better, can I still do this?" The answer was "yes." And things got even better. And it just stopped being an issue. My body healed. My mild began to heal. My son was handsome, healthy, and gained well. He had amazing personality. He loved to nurse more than anything else in the world, and taking it away from him was not an option.
And yet another day, I suddenly realized, that I love nursing Saleem.
We never take it for granted. He never bites me on purpose. I never refuse a nursing unless I absolutely have to. We know where we've been. And we love where it brought us.
