My worth in liquid gold

You all know what liquid gold is, right? Breastmilk.

Someone said to me the other day, "Wow, you must be relieved that Anand is nursing less since nursing has been so stressful for you." On one hand, they were absolutely right-- it IS a relief that Anand is nursing less (4-6 times in 24 hours, down from 9 times about 2 months ago), especially since he will only nurse at home (how I created a stubborn, stuck-in-his-routine, spitting-image-of-me baby is a whole other post). Now, I can actually leave the house for longer than 2 hours! And yes, there has been a lot of stress tied to nursing, primarily because Anand didn't eat solids til he was 11.5 months old, and my body was having trouble making a ton of milk, and I was worried that he was hungry. So, yes; stressful, indeed.

But on the other hand, I was saddened to think that nursing has been stressful, and in addition, I was saddened at the idea of other people thinking that I didn't want to nurse or that nursing was a burden on my life. Maybe I was also saddened that I had failed to live up to my own fantasy of being the perfectly laid-back earth-mother type when it came to nursing.

But here's the thing-- I've noticed that my entire outlook, mood, emotional state, etc. is too damn determined by how much milk I have and how well Anand is nursing. If I have a good bit of milk, and if Anand is nursing well, life is good, I'm a good mom, and all is right with the world. If he doesn't want to nurse and just wants to play, or if I don't really have a lot of milk and he's fed up of sucking and sucking and waiting for it, I feel frustrated and disappointed and like the order of the universe is in question. It's amazing how much difficulty I have letting go of all of this-- really, so what if he doesn't want to nurse and if he goes 8 hours without nursing? (I actually managed to walk the walk here last Tuesday and somehow managed to be totally zen about this when he refused to nurse for over 9 hours).

Perhaps it's because from Day 1, well, really Day 3 or 4, my performance as a mother was measured by how well Anand was eating and how well he was gaining weight. When he left the hospital when he was 4 days old, he his weight had gone from 7 lbs 4 oz at birth to 6 lbs 9 oz, and the pediatrician was concerned that he was losing too much weight, bla bla bla. I was in the middle of the most horrendous hormonal avalanche I had ever experienced, and I was convinced that my baby was going to be scarred for life (bigtime drama). Within 24 hours, though, my milk came roaring in, and Anand gained 5 oz in 24 hours, much to the delight of the pedi. I had so much milk in the beginning of his life that he gained weight so quickly, and all everyone could say was what a good job I was doing feeding him. Everyone kept saying, "What a good mom you are-- look at all that milk!" And, lo! Dairy Queen was born.

So, what did I become when my supply dropped? What kind of a mother was I when his weight dropped, leaving him in the 25th percentile for weight? Of course, he's still gaining weight, and no one's really worried, but still, in the back of my mind (well, not the back, clearly), I have to wonder-- am I good enough? And the answer, clearly, is yes-- but why do I feel like my worth as a mother is measured by the amount of milk I can produce? Why is the feeling of milk letting down so synonymous with relief, peace, and success?

I keep going back to those early, early days when I had so little confidence in my ability to be a mother. Dan was so good at holding Anand, soothing him, changing his diaper, swaddling him, etc. The only thing I knew I could do was feed him, and I guess I began to put all my eggs in that basket. And perhaps that's why my confidence as a mom is so shaken when I can't feed him.

So, yes, maybe it'll be less stressful when I don't have to wonder, "Will I have milk today? Will he nurse today?" but there's something amazing and perfect and beautiful and indescribably heart-tugging about lying next to your baby in the middle of the night and having him turn towards you, half asleep, eyes closed, with his mouth open like a little baby bird.