The “Breastaurant” Is Open for Business
A SCENIC VIEW OF MY PAST
It was the series finale of Blossom, and we were in the process of filming the Blossom and Six epic good-bye scene. I’d even dredged up a few tears for the occasion, though I suspect that had less to do with my acting chops and more to do with the three pots of coffee I’d consumed by midafternoon. I was jitterier than an alcoholic with a bad case of the DTs. Anyway, after five seasons and over one hundred episodes, everyone and their mother had shown up to witness our show take its final bow. The studio audience was full, and family and friends were abundant.
Which is, of course, why I was just thrilled to be stuck in pajamas for my last hurrah. What seventeen-year-old sex symbol wannabe longs to be remembered in a baggy, Golden Girls-esque nightie? And, go figure, that damned nightgown is where things went awry. In the middle of our teary farewell, I realized my pajama top had come untied and my nipple was about to make its television debut. You might question how that would even be possible, given that I should have been wearing a bra. Well . . . I wasn’t wearing a bra. Suffice it to say Mama didn’t have much of a prize inside that Cracker Jack box, so I’d skipped the undergarment altogether. In a desperate effort to keep from being mortified, I clasped my hands in front of my chest as if it were part of my reaction to Blossom’s speech. I pretended to be freaked out about the Russo family’s impending move. Of course, in reality I was freaking out about my imminent nip slip.
As soon as the scene ended I frantically flagged down Ted Wass, who was directing the episode as well as costarring in it. “You can’t use that take!” I squealed. “My shirt came undone, and I think everyone saw my boob!” I scanned the backstage area for a paper bag I could hyperventilate into.
“Nobody saw anything,” Ted calmly replied. “The take was perfect.” He turned to the crew and called out, “Moving on!”
I watched him casually walk away, while my addled adolescent brain went into panic mode. How could he do this to me? How could he let my wardrobe malfunction be the last joke I left our TV audience with? (Wasn’t I fantastically melodramatic?)
As teenagers are wont to do, I obsessed about it . . . for weeks. In fact, I was absorbed with it until the episode aired several Mondays later. That evening, rather than finishing my homework, I sat in my living room nervously cramming a bowl of Skittles down my gullet. As soon as I heard the show’s theme song kick in, I prepared to answer calls from everyone I’d ever known about my fledgling career as a porn star.
Needless to say, there was no boobage. How terribly anticlimactic. In fact, they didn’t wind up using that take after all. Think about it—if Janet Jackson couldn’t show her rack during the Super Bowl in 2004, NBC sure as hell wasn’t going to allow an underage child star to be exposed on a family sitcom in 1995, right?
Catastrophe averted. Sort of. Because that’s when I started obsessing that the film might be sitting in an edit bay somewhere, to be resurrected years later when I least expect it. Cue the Jaws music . . .
CUT TO . . .
I’m booby-trapped, and I like it. These days, I’d be happy to advertise my breasts in the middle of a televised three-ring circus if it meant my kids were happy and well fed.
MY CRADLE CHRONICLES
People often ask me if I’ve kept in touch with Mayim Bialik, who played the always awesome Blossom. I’m pretty sure they’d be surprised to find out that we not only talk fairly consistently, but our conversations most often revolve around boobs. More specifically, my boobs. We are truly bosom buddies, if you will. Now, before your brain goes off on some twisted tangent about former child stars–turned–lesbians, let me bring you back to reality here. Despite it sounding like a really fun and provocative subject that the media can spin into some titillating press (you like what I did there?), we really spend our time discussing something quite normal: breastfeeding. That is, of course, if you think it’s normal to offer a full-time dining experience from the nipples formerly known as fun.
The fact is that Mayim has become my go-to guru on all things lactation, since she happens to be a very knowledgeable Lactation Education Counselor. Things that make you go “Hmm,” right? Whose flowered hat was floppiest and whether or not our fictional counterparts slept with the same guy in season four of our ’90s TV show have become slightly less compelling to us than whether or not my milk dispensers are chafed and why.
Mayim has been my saving grace on multiple occasions, doling out guidance such as how to get my child to latch on without feeling like my tit is in a medieval torture device (practice makes perfect and trying different positions helps) and answering all manner of inane questions: “Why does my child ignore my right breast but have a preoccupation with my left?” (Most likely force of habit.) “Does it taste better over there?” (It’s anyone’s guess. Maybe that side puts out strawberry milkshakes or truffle-infused fondue.) To be fair, Mayim didn’t actually say that; it’s just my oddball sense of humor talking. Either way, she is clearly a very patient human being!
For some background, I’ve always known I wanted to breastfeed. I respect that it isn’t for everyone, but I was pretty gung ho on the whole thing. My mom breastfed all four of us kids, so I grew up feeling attached to the idea of feeling attached. I’ve actually had a multitude of vivid dreams in my life, even at the ripe old age of fourteen, during which I nursed my future spawn. I loved it, even when it only existed in my surreal and warped nighttime abyss. It may just be that I’ve had a lifelong obsession with my lack of voluptuous double Ds, and that bitter pill decided to manifest itself in my sleep, or maybe my insanity just runs that deep. However, I’d like to think it was my maternal instinct telling me not to fear it. And to stop watching Rosemary’s Baby at four in the morning.
PUBLIC DISPLAYS OF BREAST AFFECTION
As the years have gone by, I’ve noticed strange trends emerge where breastfeeding is concerned. On the one hand, it has become less and less hush-hush from a societal standpoint, which is wonderful. Want to whip it out in the middle of a crowded subway? More power to you. I promise you’ll have your staunch supporters, and you can probably assemble a million-mom march for the cause if someone kicks you out for doing it. That passion (which I fully respect) has also pushed breastfeeding to the focal point of the media such that there’s really no way to be discreet anymore, even if you want to be. To feed your child out in the open, even if you employ a cloak-and-dagger routine, often means you can’t escape fiery glances from fellow store patrons or airplane passengers, because everyone is on high alert about it. It means you are unwittingly caught in the throes of a heated public debate that exists whether you buy into it or not, just because you are fulfilling your child’s basic need.
Breastfeeding is such a natural and centuries-old part of bringing a baby into this world, so why all the fuss? I have my own theory as to how the focus of a nation turned to boobs . . . oh, wait. That’s right, it has always been fixated on them. Does anyone seriously think we’re just kicking up dust on this matter now? Our headlights have been in the spotlight since Adam and Eve. There are Hooters restaurants in every major city across America, which might suggest we’re just looking for new and improved ways to stare at women’s knockers without feeling guilty about it while simultaneously drinking beer and eating spicy chicken wings. Why do you think that ancient National Geographic, the one with the cover of a tribal woman offering a breast to her brood, is still on display in your doctor’s office decades after it was published? Putting thought-provoking photos on the cover of TIME is just an attempt to class the attention up a little and make the argument a cerebral one. We’ve been not-so-civilly enthralled by the topic of breasts for a while now. Don’t kid yourself.
With the invasion . . . er, I mean . . . super success of reality television, and our addiction to normal people acting like absolute train wrecks, public breastfeeding seems to offer folks another excuse to pretend they’re shocked by something. It’s like an up-close and personal version of The Jerry Springer Show for some of the wackos out there.
That said—and here’s the crucial significance of this chapter—I do it anyway. When my kid needs to eat, I feed her, dammit! It’s not like I’m streaking naked across a football field during halftime, participating in a Girls Gone Wild video, or exposing myself in an effort to obtain extra Mardi Gras beads; I’m providing nourishment for my child.
I encourage you to decide what your own comfort level is and go with it. To hell with the naysayers, because there will always be some! There will forever be people telling you it’s tactless and ostentatious to breastfeed in public. Alternately, there will be people telling you to let it all hang out, regardless of who’s around, because it’s your right. I, for one, prefer to exercise slightly more discretion when the situation calls for it. The thought of openly breastfeeding in front of my father-in-law, for instance, makes me about as comfy as the pope watching Andrew Dice Clay perform his stand-up shtick. It would make my father-in-law uncomfortable; ergo, I’d like to respect that. I imagine you’ll find a happy medium, as I have, but promise me you’ll do what you feel is right for you.
I didn’t start out being relaxed with the idea of public breastfeeding. When I first started nursing Gray, I felt like I needed to hide everything. (Insert absurd visuals of me in a trench coat and dark glasses here.) My inner cynic, who can be quite lively, was sure everyone in a ten-mile radius was waiting for a glimpse of side-boob. (As if there’s much to see.) Gasp! Is that a cell phone camera they’re whipping out? Is this going to wind up splashed all over the Twittersphere this afternoon? Oh my God, are these darkened SUV windows magnifying my chest into a billboard-sized ad for La Leche League? Yeah. I was a little theatrical about it, to say the least.
Here’s the thing. No one gave a flying crap about whether or not I was feeding my daughter in the backseat of my own car in the middle of the dry cleaner’s parking lot. Unless I’d carried around my very own neon sign that read Peep Show in Progress, nobody was remotely paying attention. People tend to have better things to do than seek out and embarrass a mom who’s trying to feed her infant. You know, pressing things like talking really loudly on their smartphones while drinking their lattes and putting on mascara. Your northern exposure is the least of their concerns.
I admit that a little discretion can go a long way, if your kid will allow it . . . Naturally, mine did not. Apparently neither Gray nor Marlowe are really behind-the-scenes kind of gals (I can’t fathom who they inherited that from), so they refused to be shielded by any sort of hide-a-hooter thingy.
In the early days of my motherhood, when I was still super concerned about it, I tried rigging Gray’s favorite blanket into a makeshift body sling or car curtain, to no avail. I was stuck playing full-time peekaboob instead, which made for some precarious experiences.
I got over it. As Gray and I grew a bit more comfortable in our breastfeeding routine, and I stopped being ridiculously uptight, I discovered it’s all about owning it. Sometimes you have no choice but to park a nipple in your baby’s mouth and pretend you’re so preoccupied with your kid that you don’t notice people gawking. By the time you have the second child, you won’t care if you breastfeed in front of the president of the United States.
PAINFUL VS. PRACTICAL
Some people will tell you breastfeeding hurts like a bitch; others will tell you it shouldn’t hurt at all. Both can be accurate.
It’s much like squeezing into those jeans that are two sizes too small, just so you can impress your fellow PTA moms. You know you’ll have to hold your breath all night to keep them zipped up, but it’s worth it when you hear one of them whisper, “Man, I can’t believe she just had a baby!” Of course, in this particular instance, instead of your ego, your child reaps the benefits, so that seems like more than a fair trade.
The fact is that breastfeeding may not be comfortable or easy at first. As with any new endeavor you embark upon, it isn’t without its quirks . . . if quirks really means pain and suffering. It usually takes about two to three weeks for your nipples to toughen up, and that time period isn’t always fun-filled.
If I could purposely embrace the torment of nipple piercings in my twenties, I thought breastfeeding should be a breeze. In retrospect, I was blissfully ignorant, and I wish someone had been open with me about what I had to look forward to. It certainly wouldn’t have changed my mind about breastfeeding in general, but it would have made me feel less panicky when things didn’t go the way I expected. I’ve had my share of breastfeeding hurdles to overcome since then, and I’ve probably fretted more than I needed to in the midst of them.
Thankfully, at some point I enlisted Mayim’s guidance and got on the right track. I encourage you not to get scared off by the prospect of things like mastitis and plugged milk ducts (though I can tell you from experience, the latter is more painful than the name implies); those maladies are out there, and you may do battle with them every now and then. I won’t sugarcoat it and tell you that it’ll be easy to get your baby latched on properly or that there are no miserable side effects in your future. But no pain, no gain, right? I’ve lived through both of those examples I mentioned, and they were merely bumps in the road . . . albeit sore bumps. I promise the benefits have far outweighed the sacrifices. And that’s a serious understatement.
Despite my love and enthusiasm for it, the first few weeks of breastfeeding took some getting used to. And by that I mean I complained almost as much as a proud Irishman being forced to wear a leprechaun costume and stand on a street corner handing out samples of Lucky Charms. Your boobs will get raw and sensitive, and they’ll have to get used to being sucked on constantly. Unless your hubby has a serious fetish for that sort of thing, your body needs some time to adjust to the constant attention. For some of us, it’s similar to building finger calluses while learning to play guitar. (Which is, I’m sure, an example that’s making you yearn to breastfeed!) My troubles didn’t end with building up my tolerance. I also had an issue with flat nipples, which kept Gray from being able to latch on securely enough to nurse. I had to use nipple shields to sweet-talk them into coming out. And it’s all fun and games until your nipples are being pulled out like a cavity.
Once my second daughter came along, my breasts were accustomed to the process and didn’t rebel at all. Gray really paved the way for Marlowe, who latched on without a second thought!
I certainly respect your decision to stop breastfeeding if it just isn’t for you. That said, if you feel strongly about continuing it but feel dispirited by the discomfort and pain, I encourage you to speak with a lactation specialist before giving up on the process. Consulting a professional might help you push through to the healing stage. Hopefully they can help you find that light at the end of the tunnel!
My go-to guru would tell me you shouldn’t feel any pain at all if your baby is nursing properly, but my boobs had a mind of their own on that one. Or maybe the fact that my daughter fed like a barracuda had something to do with it. Either way, once you hit your pain threshold you’re most likely nearing the end of the gauntlet. Huzzah! Eureka! Now, if you’re lucky like I was, you can move on to being a 24/7 breastaurant. Check, please?
MILKING THE LONGEVITY OF YOUR MILK
There are a lot of things to learn about breastfeeding, but the one thing I wish I’d known more about in advance were the general rules of preserving the milk properly. Believe me when I say it is liquid gold, and it physically hurts to watch it go down the drain if you’re forced to ditch it. This means one needs to take suitable precautionary measures when pumping and stocking up. Here’s what I’ve learned.
Don’t expect babysitters to understand the concept of how precious your breast milk is, because they won’t.
First things first, a visible bottle of breast milk in your freezer is a loaded gun. Put another way, you view your milk as a lobster dinner; they view it as a hamburger at a McDonald’s drive-through. You’ll come home from a much-needed Friday night date with the hubs, only to find that your sitter took it upon herself to thaw the largest packet of milk you have stored in your freezer—you know, the one that took the whole week to pump, since you can’t get Mini-Me to take a break from feasting long enough to squeeze out more than a few drops at a time. But “Don’t worry, Mrs. Bratcher”—that’s my married name—“two minutes after I thawed it I realized the baby wasn’t hungry; she just needed a diaper change. Isn’t that great?” Well, no, it’s not great. Because guess what. Lesson numero uno, you can’t refreeze breast milk.
Tuck that guy into the back of your freezer if you don’t want it to be needlessly defrosted while you’re away. And I mean the way back of the freezer, behind the frostbitten Lean Pockets that sounded like a good idea when you bought them four years ago but haven’t been touched since.
Because telling your twenty-year-old sitter to use the breast milk “only as a last resort, once you’ve made sure the baby isn’t just overheated or gassy,” is code for “go ahead and use it if my kid whines or makes any sound that prevents you from texting your musician boyfriend.”
Unfortunately, the aforementioned scenario means only one thing in our house—that the newly thawed milk probably won’t be in any condition to be consumed by the time we get around to using it. I don’t know about you, but my kid won’t touch a bottle of milk if my boobs are within spitting distance.
Plus, there’s nothing worse than having that big container of perishable breast milk looming over you every time you open the fridge to get yourself a snack. And by snack, I mean glass of wine . . . which brings me to the only solid reason to use that baby bottle: Go out and have a few cocktails with your girlfriends while your husband stays home with the baby. You get tipsy, the baby gets the bottle with untainted (nonalcoholic) milk, your husband gets to feel like you actually think he can handle being alone with your kid for more than five minutes, and everyone’s happy!
The general rules that apply to refrigerating breast milk aren’t an exact science.
How long your milk will keep before souring depends on your body, your fridge, and some scientific variables I know nothing about. What I do know is that even if I store a bottle in the very back of my extremely cold fridge, I often find the milk goes bad after about forty-eight hours, which is significantly less than I’ve been told is the norm. Many online sources quote that you can refrigerate the milk up to eight days before using or freezing it, but apparently the milk gods have conspired against me.
For argument’s sake, we’ll use the current CDC guidelines.*
You can leave pumped milk out on a countertop or table for six to eight hours at room temperature. This gives you enough time to watch a few reruns of Desperate Housewives before remembering you got too distracted to refrigerate it like you should have in the first place.
You can store the milk in your fridge (preferably in the back, where it’s coldest) for five days. Unless, of course, your milk has the life expectancy of a housefly like mine does.
You can keep your milk in the freezer (a normal freezer that has a separate door from your refrigerator, not a compartment inside of the refrigerator) for three to six months. You can supposedly keep it even longer, but the lipids in the milk deteriorate, leaving you with inferior quality. Either way, this essentially gives you enough time to stock up for the next Y2K or Mayan apocalypse.
If you think the milk smells sour, it probably is.
Smelling the milk before giving it to your child is key. If you really aren’t convinced, suck it up and taste it. There’s nothing wrong with trying your own brand of booze in order to be sure you aren’t giving your child something that will potentially make him ill. And for those of you freaking out that I’ve admitted to doing this, I’m not asking you to consume urine, for God’s sake. Somehow, folks have no trouble drinking the milk supply from farmer John’s heifer, who’s out chewing her cud in the field, but they pale at the thought of tasting their own. You do what you’ve gotta do. I guarantee that ain’t the crudest thing you’ll have to do as a parent.
Mommy mammary maintenance
The market is saturated with various items to make breastfeeding easier and more comfortable, and a few of them even work. In case you’re curious, my favorites are as follows:
1. Lansinoh Soothies Gel Pads. (Other companies make them as well; I just happened to like this brand.) These things saved me. I stored them in the fridge until they were ice-cold, then placed them on my nipples when I was sore. It sounds like some freaky sadomasochism ploy, but it’s an incredible relief. They remove the heat from your breasts and give your nipples some well-deserved TLC. If you’re more of a home-remedy kind of girl, cucumber slices or chamomile tea bags would probably work too.
2. Nursing pads. These guys slip in between your breast and your bra to form a catchall, kind of like a maxi pad for your boob. I purchased fun, washable ones on Etsy and supplemented with disposable ones when need be. The beauty of the disposables is that they have adhesive, so they don’t slide around as easily. This may not save you from embarrassment when your child decides to pull one out and wave it around at your fellow farmer’s market patrons, but it will save you from the shame of accidental milk seepage through your matron-of-honor gown at your little sister’s wedding. In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m drawing from personal experience on those.
3. The Medela breast pump. These guys have it down pat. They not only make amazing hands-free pumps, but they also have a recycling program to use once you’re done. Then they turn around and donate new, multi-use pumps to Ronald McDonald House in return. Instead of letting your pump wind up in a landfill somewhere, why not properly recycle it and simultaneously support a fellow breastfeeding mom in need?
4. Lansinoh HPA Lanolin for Breastfeeding or Medela Advanced Nipple Therapy.* Lanolin is a salve that’s so thick it could catch flies, but it’s awesome. A doula friend suggested I liberally apply it to my nipples before showering, to prevent them from getting dry and damaged, because there ain’t nothin’ funny about cracked and bleeding nipples. It’s the equivalent of having a million tiny paper cuts on your tongue. Even mild cleansers tend to dehydrate your skin, so some protection is imperative. The point of the Lanolin is to coat your nipples as thoroughly as possible so the soap and water repel off of it. I greased my puppies like I was a meathead prepping for a bodybuilding competition. My nipples had their very own suit of armor.
5. Motherlove Nipple Cream. If you’re just looking for a soothing salve, Motherlove makes a significantly lighter nipple cream that is also organic and all-natural. It’s safe for baby’s digestion (the main ingredient is olive oil, if that helps), and it makes for a nice bedtime balm. It’s important to use baby-friendly products, since you have so much skin-to-skin contact with your child. Perfumed lotions and oils are likely to transfer to your newborn or, even worse, get into his mouth while he suckles. If you’re anything like I was, a five-minute shower can be a luxury; I was lucky to have two minutes to towel off before I had to jump back in the breastfeeding game. With that in mind, I really had to pay attention to everything that went into washing or hydrating my body so it wouldn’t cause allergic reactions for, or be ingested by, my daughters.
As a side note, towels and bathrobes can seriously activate your baby’s gluttony. Seeing you in any attire that allows for easy access to the booby buffet is a baby’s cornucopia. God forbid you walk around naked; it’s game on! So if you need a brief recess from serving meals, do yourself a favor and cover up. Or invent a childproof chastity bra.
The curse of colic
You may be asking what colic has to do with breastfeeding. For me, the answer was everything, because Gray’s trouble with colic was directly related to what I was eating.
To put it succinctly, colic is about as enjoyable as a double root canal. If you’re the parent of a colicky baby, you’ll be treading the treacherous terrain of sleepless nights and incessant screaming (sometimes both yours and the baby’s), with a side of guilt thrown in over being powerless to fix the problem. In a nutshell, it’ll make you want to tear out your hair and break out the good vodka.
I wish I had an easy remedy to throw your way here, but the one that worked for me was somewhat of a culinary debacle . . . I had to give up dairy. This notion was only slightly more pleasant for me than discovering a toenail in my coleslaw, but more on going dairy-free in a minute.
Colic seems to be a term that’s rather loosely defined by Wikipedia as “A condition in which your otherwise healthy child cries or displays symptoms of distress (cramping, moaning, etc.), frequently and for extended periods of time, without any discernible reason.”* Which, ironically, also happens to sound an awful lot like what your kid will go through during puberty. Colic gets a bad reputation for being the bully on the block, but I think he might get blamed for a few things he isn’t responsible for too. For example, I have a sneaking suspicion gas or an underdeveloped digestive system are sometimes the quiet criminals. Even allergies can inflict mayhem on a tiny tummy. Regardless of which of those is the true culprit, it sucks when your kid is screaming and you can’t determine the cause. There’s nothing more anxiety-inducing than not being able to soothe the little person who depends entirely on you. And then, of course, there’s the nonstop bawling. It’s a laugh a minute.
My own experience with colic went a little something like this: When Gray was born, we were informed that her stomach and lungs were still in the process of developing. We were also warned that the need for an early delivery might wreak havoc on her tummy, which was the understatement of the year. My poor baby was a hiccupping, belching, farting mess for the first eight months of her life. (I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to read this in twenty years.) Her stomach gurgled so loudly that I thought someone was leading an uprising in there. As if that weren’t intense enough, she was spewing projectile vomit like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. My little girl was an unbelievable trooper; she rarely cried for any reason other than the bouts of colic. When her abdomen seized up, however, her screams could have raised Elvis from his grave. The toughest part wasn’t the amount of time we spent pacing with her during the wee hours of the morning, or the decibel level of her shrieking; it was the fact that there wasn’t much we could do about it. Or was there?
Haunted by my inability to take my daughter’s pain away, I started looking into possible solutions. The technical term for this might be shooting in the dark. I experimented with every burping angle, sleeping position, and natural colic aid on the market. I know a lot of folks use Zantac or other over-the-counter acid reflux reducers, but my husband and I really wanted to avoid giving our newborn medication, if at all possible. We were desperate to find a more holistic route, but nothing was working.
Finally, when I was about one gripe water attempt from a nervous breakdown, a close friend suggested I give up dairy. She swore it had worked like a charm for her son, who’d had similar troubles. What’s this you say? Forego all my beloved cheesy goodness for an indefinite amount of time? No butter, sour cream, or (and here’s where I got really testy) iced venti, nonfat, two-pump toffee nut latte from Starbucks? That’s just crazy talk!
I tried convincing myself the universe couldn’t possibly be so diabolical as to conspire against my cheese consumption. I love cheese. Eating a triple-cream brie is equivalent to an orgasm for me. I mean there are sacrifices, and there are sacrifices!
But, alas, I was at my wits’ end and willing to try anything. I started kicking around the dairy-free idea by researching it and asking around. The first stop was my daughter’s pediatrician. She was mostly skeptical. I’m pretty confident she chalked it up to a passing fad and didn’t really believe it would do much other than deprive me of my sanity. I didn’t disagree, but I was open to throwing a Hail Mary pass. Go big or go home (to a screaming baby), right?
I’d given up wine during my pregnancy, which clearly proved I had more willpower than I’d previously given myself credit for, but no dairy? Was I really ready to take such a drastic step? The answer was a wholehearted and resounding yes, whether Gray’s pediatrician thought I was loopy or not. Anything to help my baby get rid of her stomachaches and acid reflux, even if it was a toss of the dice. So it was farewell, yummy Greek yogurt, and hello, soy cheese, for me. Oh, the sacrilege!
The theory that giving up dairy can ease infantile colic seems to be more and more common these days. In some circles, it’s almost considered trendy. Mind you, I don’t put much stock in what’s en vogue. The idea of jumping on the bandwagon and conforming to the masses generally makes me run for the hills. In fact, unknowingly starting a worldwide hat craze at the age of twelve was my one and only trendsetting stint in this lifetime, if I have anything to say about it. But as I mentioned earlier, I was desperate and ready to jump on the dairy-free bandwagon if it would help Gray.
The week after I quit dairy cold turkey (sadly, they don’t make medicated patches or gum for that), I brought the plan up to my OB-GYN.
“I’m all for it, and I fully believe it works,” my doc told me.
For some background, she has several children and had given birth to a little boy a month or two before I had Gray. I really respect her input as both a mommy and a doctor, so I was interested to hear her take on it.
“I’ve been dairy-free for two months now,” she continued. “I’m telling you, I’ve noticed a huge difference. My son is finally a happy baby. It takes two to three weeks to completely rid your system of the dairy, but I began noticing a difference about eight to ten days in. As an experiment, I tried reintroducing a little bit of milk last week, and my son started pooping crazy stuff.”
Strangely, those words were music to my ears. My mind raced with the possibilities. You mean, like, he expelled the whole Monopoly menagerie out his butt? Or just Park Place and Boardwalk? Now I was intrigued. “Crazy stuff?” I asked, even though I knew not to.
She went on to tell me about the rainbow of fruit flavors she’d discovered in her son’s diaper; I’ll spare you the details.
Nonetheless, she had me at “happy baby.” It was enough incentive to keep my new diet going . . . especially if it meant avoiding erratic and volatile diaper contents.
As I started wrapping my mind around the dairy-free scenario, I realized a trip to the grocery store was in order. I packed up my little bundle of joy and drove to the nearest market. I drooled my way past the wonderfully stinky French cheeses and salivated over a pastry stuffed with mascarpone that I wouldn’t normally hazard a glance at. Because, naturally, the more I told myself I couldn’t have dairy, the more I wanted it. Isn’t that always the case?
I finally arrived at the dairy-free section and began to peruse the shelves. Okay, I’m lying. I perused the shelf. As in, one shelf. A lone shelf with half a dozen items on it, some which looked more like they belonged in test tubes. But I suppose I was lucky to have even that many options, so I threw one of each into my cart.
After I’d shed a mournful tear for all the yummy lactose-filled things I had to leave behind, I arrived home with coconut butter, almond milk, faux yogurt, and a few scary-looking wedges made to resemble something vaguely edible and cheddar-like. For the record, those may still be in my fridge. I can’t stand the thought of wasting anything, but I also can’t bring myself to touch the stuff. On the other hand, I found I was quite fond of anything derived from coconut or almond milk, and I managed to stumble upon some delicious substitutes I’m still using to this day.
There are a surprising number of dairy-free alternatives making their way to the supermarket aisles, as long as you freely indulge your culinary creative spirit. The Internet is also chock-full of recipes. (Though I advise you skip the gourmet sites you normally peruse or you’ll be falling off the wagon in no time flat. Nothing says fuck dairy-free like scouring recipes for lobster mac ’n’ cheese. And any attempt to make a salted-caramel cheesecake with rice milk is just plain unholy.)
Sure enough, two weeks after lactose and I had our insufferable breakup, my daughter started to feel better. And you know what? As much as I hated to admit it, so did I. I felt far less gassy and bloated, which may be more information than you wanted. I could even wear some of the clothes that I hadn’t been able to pour my booty into before, which was an unexpected benefit. In the four months that I was dairy-free (yes, four months! Can I get a gold star for that? Or maybe a slice of gorgonzola?) my child-bearing hips shrank two sizes and my kid became the most content baby on the block. She was in such a state of euphoria you’d have thought I’d slipped her a Valium.
MILK DOES A BODY GOOD—MOSTLY
Here are some other important things I learned about breastfeeding.
When your milk comes in, you may find your areolae get darker or lighter, your breasts may become disproportionally engorged, and they might be big enough to feed a herd of hungry hippos.
Similarly, your nipples may become firm enough to hang your car keys from, but at least you’ll never have to worry about misplacing them again. That remote control key finder you bought from QVC at three in the morning has just been rendered obsolete.
Your boobs will see more action than Jenna Jameson.
As a side note, I’m overjoyed to share my first name with such a class act.
Did I mention your boobs will see a lot of action?
No, really. The cantaloupe ain’t the only thing getting squeezed in aisle seven of the grocery store. And wait until your kid is old enough to start tugging your shirt down.
Kids don’t know the meaning of indecent exposure, so wear a tight-fitting bra or break out the old hickey-covering turtlenecks from high school.
Rest assured, your child will choose the most unsuitable times to attempt to tear your clothes off, and it sometimes stems from boredom rather than a nutritional need. For instance, Gray used to think church was a good forum for feeling me up. Most often, this occurred midsermon. Praise the Lord, is that Jenna’s breast I see? I’ve also experienced standing in an airport security line (attempting to juggle the baby, a “folding” stroller, and an infant car seat, while simultaneously removing my shoes), when it dawned on me that my kid was headed for second base in front of every TSA agent in the Tri-State area. Who needs an X-ray machine?
If you see men (or anyone else, for that matter) staring at your boobs, check for leakage.
Don’t assume you’re looking so hot that everyone you pass by is contemplating a wild romp in the hay with you. The fact that you’re toting a wailing toddler on your hip who’s leaving a trail of snot and the faint stench of poopy pants behind you probably severely lessens your caliber of seduction. It’s physically impossible to ooze sexuality when you’re also oozing baby goo.
Breastfeeding gives you an excuse to be lazy, and what new mom doesn’t deserve a few minutes to sit still?
You also deserve a few minutes to shower, comb your hair, and get out of your pajamas, but let’s not get carried away. You’ll have to get a bit more creative for those opportunities. Breastfeeding is honestly the cheapest, easiest, most natural source of food for your baby. As luck would have it, it also allows for Mad Men marathons while you dish the goods! The milk is always warmed and ready to go, and it keeps your kid from getting sick as often. Your body actually sends protective antibodies to the mammary glands, which shield your baby from infection and build immunity. How freaking cool is that? Between us, my husband and I saw several bouts with the flu, multiple colds, and a sinus infection before Gray’s first birthday. We went through five boxes of Kleenex in three months, and that’s no exaggeration. But despite our steady stream of maladies, do you know what Gray came down with? One slight bug that lasted for a few hours. Got milk?
As if having an excuse to embrace being lazy isn’t enough motivation, breastfeeding can be a huge catalyst for losing your pregnancy weight.
Who needs a gym membership when you have a calorie-sucking newborn doing push-ups on your chest?
You need to trim your baby’s fingernails frequently.
I know you’re probably wondering how this pertains to nursing, but I promise you won’t be asking that question when little Freddy Krueger gets going. You will become a scratching post! Infant nails are akin to mini tattoo needles, and they can rip your chest open like a raccoon rooting in the Sunday night garbage.
Don’t be surprised if your kid is a milkaholic.
This is normal, and it doesn’t require a twelve-step program. There’s not much else to preoccupy him yet in this life, so he’s grasping at straws . . . or nipples, as the case may be.
Even when your breasts have grown accustomed to having a fanatical booby groupie, it may not be the end of your agony.
On a good note, the new suffering brings some comedy along with it. You may find that your child’s captivation with your boobs results in any number of the following practices: flesh-pinching, squeezing, smacking, slapping them like a Christmas ham, punching, poking, prodding, kneading them like pizza dough, jabbing, tugging, and tuning in to 97.7, The Nipple (playing all-day hits on your tits). In fact, you may see more titty twisters than hell week at the local fraternity. Regrettably, you’re not allowed to get wasted like those boys are.
Beware of baby mind control.
Don’t be surprised if you fall under the spell of breast brainwashing. Marlowe could make me lactate the second she even thought about food. The milk letdown was so forceful it felt like someone was taking a Taser to my nipples. And the scariest part is that I got used to it!
As with earthquakes, you will be rocked by a few aftershocks.
For example, following my booby boot camp, I wasn’t aware my left nipple would decide to stand at eternal attention. Who knew the Pointer Sisters would wind up directing traffic full-time or flagging planes coming into the Nashville airport? The reality is that your breasts may never be the same again. But you know what? Suck it up. (Sorry—bad choice of words there.) Your husband isn’t worried about whether your nipples are bigger or more uneven than they used to be, as long as he can still mess around with them. And that’s what really counts.
Beware of getting too used to playing show-and-tell with the tatas.
Those guys . . . Yeesh! You give them an inch, and they take a yard. The more generous you are about letting them see the light of day, the more second nature their exposure becomes. And the more second nature it becomes, the better chance you have of not noticing that Lil’ Miss Lefty is popping out to say “What’s up?” to the sweaty UPS guy as you sign for a package from Diapers.com. That driver probably sees less excitement than a snail on any given day, so don’t give him a reason to be equally slimy. If you aren’t cautious, your neighbors may also be in for a treat. Or a teat, as the case may be. I’ve had to consciously stop myself from pacing in front of our giant picture window while I breastfeed, so I don’t unwittingly look like I’m running a neighborhood bordello. When people start doing drive-bys to see if the porch light is red or begin calling you Miss Kitty at the local block party, it’s time to get curtains. Mundane outdoor tasks should be taken into account as well. On more than one occasion, I’ve caught myself retrieving the mail in a partially detached nursing bra. Swanky, I know. My point is, being on display can become all too familiar. My advice is to think of your breasts as masked crusaders. Even Superman needs to cover up in a disguise from time to time, right? It’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s . . . oops!
Breastfeeding can be messy business.
When your breasts are locked and loaded, be careful where you take the safety off. Let me explain. Have you ever turned on your backyard hose, only to find there’s a puncture causing water to spray clear over the fence and onto your neighbor’s cat? Well, milk-supplying nipples don’t have just a single hole; they have many holes. Every now and then they fancy themselves a sprinkler system and, if you aren’t careful, they can take someone out. Not surprisingly, insurance doesn’t cover that sort of accident. If you’re curious about the milk-shooting phenomenon, think of what happens when you shake a champagne bottle. The cork keeps all that carbonation in there, and as soon as you release it, it gushes out. Sometimes, if you’ve waited a while to nurse, the pressure builds up. A bit of prompting from your little one is enough to send that milk out like it’s being propelled by a turbo booster. Pleasant thought, huh? Don’t misunderstand me—it isn’t painful at all. But it’s like playing badminton with firecrackers every time you give your kid a snack in public. Duck and cover, people!
You will have some funky side effects.
I didn’t get my period for a year and a half, which I attribute to the frequency of breastfeeding. Apparently my body was telling me to slow my roll and postpone trying for that second kid until after I’d potty trained the first one. (A word of caution: if you aren’t menstruating, it doesn’t necessarily mean you aren’t ovulating; it just isn’t consistent. In other words, you can still get knocked up and not have any clue until you’re doubled over the toilet, puking your guts out. Consider that my warning.) Also, and this may have nothing to do with breastfeeding at all, my hair fell out for fourteen months like I was in the throes of chemotherapy. I’d heard I might lose a few more strands than normal, but that didn’t come close to describing the gruesome scene. Every time I showered, I pulled softball-sized clumps out of the bathtub basin. If I’d started collecting it all at the beginning, I could have made myself a Hannibal Lecter–inspired fur coat. Or perhaps a really barbaric toupee.
Try and try again.
Infants can be picky about their eating habits, so that old adage is definitely true for breastfed babies. Breastfeeding requires a lot of trial and error, testing of various positions, and mental diligence. Your little one may love the cradle hold but despise the football hold. Try everything and figure out what makes both of you most comfortable. Believe it or not, the same can be true for bottle-feeding. The first time I pumped for my second daughter so my husband could have some bonding time with her, she screamed bloody murder and turned that bottle down like it was liver and onions. We discovered she hated the length of the bottle nipple. Since every nipple is contoured differently and has a specific level of milk flow, a breastfed baby tends to be naturally drawn to the ones that more closely mimic her mom’s breasts.
Get ready to love it.
All joking aside, I wouldn’t trade the bonding experience for a million nights of sound sleep. In fact, the thought that I’ll eventually have to stop nursing already makes me want to weep, despite the fact that I’m still in the process of breastfeeding Marlowe. Moving on from breastfeeding can be emotionally challenging and draining for everyone. Gray and I both experienced withdrawals from it when she weaned at nearly two years old, even though from a maturity standpoint, she was ready to give it up. Her heart definitely belonged to the boob, and we both liked it that way! Although I knew I would be having more children to breastfeed in the future, I missed the quiet moments Gray and I spent simply gazing at one another as she ate. The special and unique relationships I’ve developed with both of my girls have been greatly enhanced by breastfeeding, and I’ve cherished every moment. Even at three in the morning, when I’m too worn out to remember my own name.
If you’re having trouble breastfeeding, don’t be afraid to reach out for help!
There are generally classes offered at your local hospital, La Leche League likely has a support team in your area, and (with any luck) there should also be a fabulous team of hospital lactation consultants on hand after you deliver. Their knowledge, assistance, and emotional support are there for your benefit, so take advantage while they’re available!
As a heads-up, not all the lactation nurses will treat you with kid gloves, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Nipples often have to be coaxed a bit, and some lactation nurses will endeavor to physically help that along. You may be uncomfortable with the thought of a nurse being hands-on, but the alternative is not having a proper latch. That’s far more frustrating and uncomfortable, mark my words!
After Gray was born, I recall being put off by the second lactation nurse who was assigned to my room. I was so physically and mentally spent that I yearned for a gentle hand to help guide me. I just wanted my kid to eat, for crying out loud! The first nurse had been kind and soft-spoken, so the second nurse’s gruff approach was nails on a chalkboard. I’d graduated from Florence Nightingale to Nurse Ratched in one hospital shift.
I mean, I’d just been poked with needles, doped up, pried open, stitched up, and deprived of solid food. This was promptly followed by seventeen hours (seventeen!) of not being allowed to hold my precious baby, who I was so desperate for that I was bordering on maniacal. The last thing I wanted was a rough introduction to latching on. But I wasn’t there to dip my toes in the water; I was there to dive in headfirst and sink or swim. Thank God for Nurse Ratched, or I would have been at the bottom of the deep end.
Initially, I bristled at how brusquely she thrust my daughter’s face at my breast. The kid is less than a day old, I thought. Is she really ready to sidle up to the bar like a Betty Ford Center reject? The answer was an enthusiastic absolutely. Apparently it was just what the doctor ordered, because Gray started knocking my milk back like it was Colt 45.
In retrospect, the first nurse hadn’t provided us with anything other than encouragement. And while I likely required some of that too, what I really needed was a crash course with visual aids. In no time, Gray and I were on our way to being pros. It just entailed some experimentation and a lactation nurse who knew how to get results. I’m eternally grateful, despite her cantankerous breastside manner. My advice? Don’t bite the hand that feeds, or your kid may end up biting the nipple that feeds him.
CAN I GET A LITTLE LOVE FOR ALL THE NONBREASTFEEDING MOMS OUT THERE?
I admit that I’m in the breastfeeding encouragement camp, which must be blatant by now. I believe it is incredibly beneficial for your child, and I feel the bonding is unparalleled. However, that’s my personal opinion. Not everyone even has the choice to breastfeed, for one reason or another, so don’t beat yourself up if you opt out of it. That’s your prerogative, and no one should be crucified for that! The world will not end if you don’t breastfeed. Exhibit A: I can think of several dear friends who weren’t breastfed, and I can’t imagine the bond they have with their mothers being any deeper or more loving. Alternately, I know folks who were breastfed who don’t have stellar relationships with their mothers. So don’t put unfair pressure on yourself! Formula is not the root of all evil, despite what some might say. If you do what’s right for you and your baby, you’re doing the right thing. Case closed.
THE MORAL OF MY STORY
Breastfeeding my children has provided me with some of the most beautiful bonding time I could possibly hope for. It has also rendered me an exhibitionist and part-time taffy pull. Fun stuff.
*“Proper Handling and Storage of Human Milk,” Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, last modified March 4, 2010, accessed April 27, 2015, http://www.cdc.gov/breastfeeding/recommendations/handling_breastmilk.htm.
*It sounds as if I’m peddling Lansinoh and Medela merchandise like a high-strung Mary Kay consultant here, but I have no ulterior motive. Although Medela hired me on as their ambassador for the Medela Recycles campaign I mentioned in number 3, no one paid me to put any of this in my book. I honestly believe in these products!
*“Baby Colic,” Wikipedia, accessed June 12, 2014, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baby_colic.