It's a tremendous honour to be guest posting here at Megan's place! Megan was one of the very first bloggers I discovered (right after Simple Mom) in 2008, I think. I had been blogging myself in obscurity and near-isolation for 3 years by that time, when I realised that there was this gorgeous, crazy, honest, crunchy, insightful, challenging group of mamas out here, writing about things that mattered to me. I think I devoured Megan's site in entirety in a week! I stalked her mercilessly after that, never missed a post.
When she did a series on birth stories, I couldn't resist sending her an unsolicited one about my son, Joseph (who was an unintended, unattended free birth in our parkade). She emailed back and we kept emailing and, now, I count Megan among my dearest friends. We joke that we're mind-twins, that somehow we're soul-sisters that found each other, her in Oklahoma, me here in British Columbia, and I feel like she is such a dear friend to me now. I love Megan's tender heart most of all, she is gentle-spirited even in her strong beliefs, and she teaches me, disciples me truly. So thankful for her voice in my own life and thankful to be part of this community she's created for all of us.
Dear Mama,
I need to confess, my sister. I have judged you.
When I saw you with your bottles at the park, when I spotted cans of formula at your house, some small, mean part of me judged you. Honestly, even at the time, I hated that part of myself. After all, I love you. I listened to you tell me of the reasons why you were here, sterilizing bottles, and even cried with you when you cried over guilt and helplessness and pain, sympathetically reassuring you, I understood, I said.
But I lied. I didn’t understand.
I was angry on your behalf because you had no support or education, no one fighting for what you wanted for your babe and so you gave up little by little to pressure from parents and friends and marketers. Or because you were a victim of a hard birth and then I blamed your epidural and the medicalization of birth. And then society as a whole and its lip service to ‘family values’.
But some part of me thought you hadn’t tried hard enough. That you gave up too easily.
I was blaming you.
You know that I write and talk a lot about breastfeeding and that I am passionate about the experience – for babies and for mothers. True, there are 101 reasons to breastfeed but I sing that it was a transformative experience for me in every way.
I breastfed my two older tinies for 18 months each, only weaning as they lead. We easily nursed right from the start to the end. They were exclusively breastfed and we have never owned a bottle, never given a supplement of formula, never stored milk in bags or needed to pump. I had enough milk for a Russian orphanage. I easily nursed in public all over the city and beyond – malls, restaurants, church and so on. I became a peer breastfeeding coach through our health unit, correcting bad latches and repeatedly saying to sobbing mothers that breastfeeding does not hurt if you are doing it right, and talked of supply-and-demand, and commitment from my lofty perch.
I must have been a fearsome creature for the formula-feeding mama to behold.
Then, more than a year ago, I gave birth to my third baby. And when she was two days old, I made a simple mistake. I nursed her all night with a bad latch. I was sleepy (and probably a bit arrogant) so I didn’t pay attention.
By morning, my breasts were in so much pain, I held them and cried for hours. My milk came in full force and then I was engorged. This new baby’s mouth was so much smaller than my other two tinies’ and she wouldn’t or couldn’t latch now. She screamed and I cried and my nipples cracked down the middle. I peeled breast pads back to find them crusted with blood. Every feeding was agonizing, leaving me whimpering. She hit her day 5 growth spurt and I nursed her, back to back, side to side, for twenty-four excruciating hours.
I had to go back to the basics of what I knew, latching her on and off 9 or 10 times until we got it right. I gritted my teeth and curled my toes, carefully applying Lansinoh and googling correct positioning and latch videos on YouTube at 3:12 a.m. and praying, praying, praying for us to get it. She nursed constantly, only stopping to sleep fitfully, hungry. My mother came over for two days to watch my other two, allowing me to devote my full attention to nursing. My midwives came over to help and offer counsel, correcting techniques that I thought I had mastered.
I was exhausted. I was in pain. I wanted relief. I admitted to myself – and now to you – that I wanted to give up.
After that week, the engorgement eased. Scabs developed. We figured out our latch. It’s took a while to become easy, she required my full attention to positioning and latch every feeding which was new – and humbling – for me. But the pain was gone and she is still eating well and fully. Which means that she is sleeping better which means that I am sleeping better now which means that everything is more bearable. She is a happy, peaceful tiny girl at last. We made it. She's 13 months old now.
I know it was only a week of my life and you, my sister, endured months and months, and it was a much worse story with so many factors, so many heartbreaks, so many decisions, so much to endure. This little experience, it seems so small when I write it down but it felt big and impossible and exhausting and too painful in those weeks.
I am very thankful we made it. I’ll still be me, I’m sure, about this breastfeeding thing. I’ll still want to tell my own beautiful stories of the breastfeeding journey. But I'll also seek to encourage and affirm women, to advocate for the rights of mothers to feed their children with education and support, without judgement - even/especially when they make different choices than me, even/especially when they did not have a choice.
You see, my advocacy for breastfeeding is coming from a humble, supportive heart instead of a know-it-all with no challenges. I now understand just a small bit – a very small bit – of how it feels when it hurts and it’s the middle of the night and you’re just so tired and you feel so inadequate for everything.
I respect you and your story, sister. This is mine. And we are both mums that do our best and sometimes that has to be enough.
I have no blame, no judgment left. It’s finally gone and I'm lighter for the grace I've found here.
Will you forgive me?
Sarah Bessey writes at www.sarahbessey.com, where she has become an accidental grassroots voice for postmodern and emerging women in the Church on issues from mothering to politics and theology to ecclesiology. Her writing has been well received in many publications including Church Leaders, Relevant Magazine, A Deeper Story, SheLoves Magazine, and Emergent Village. Sarah also works with Mercy Ministries of Canada, a non-profit residential home for women seeking freedom from life-controlling issues. She is a happy-clappy follower of Jesus and social justice wannabe. Sarah lives in Abbotsford, British Columbia, Canada with her husband, Brian, and their three tinies: Anne, Joseph and Evelynn Joan.
