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| Breast feeding |
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| After several frustrating minutes of inserting my nipple up her nostril I eventually got the correct orifice and settled back to feeding proper. My new-born at this point realised what it was for and clamped her gums down. I yelped in pain and yanked myself free, which was a huge mistake, not least because I am sure that was the one and only time she ever latched on properly. As any successful breast-feeding mum will confirm, pulling the breast out after the baby is latched is one way to ensure that you throb painfully for several minutes afterwards, and throb I did. |
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| I made a few subsequent attempts to latch her on, but, being wary of the vice-like grip, my attempts were very ginger indeed. After a quarter of an hour Suzannah was thoroughly cheesed off and made no bones about telling me so. This no-nonsense method of displaying her displeasure soon earned her the alternative name of �Oh! Suzannah!� by most of the nursing staff, and I soon wished I was in Alabama, banjo or no banjo, instead of being in this maternity ward keeping everyone else�s baby awake whilst I tried and failed to feed my own. The midwives on the ward did their best with me, but I was utterly hopeless. It was in the small hours of the third day that I pressed the call button yet again for help with my breast-feeding. And as Murphy�s Law would have it, in came the auxiliary nurse who must really have hated me, and with good reason: At three in the morning after the birth I had pressed the button in a similar manner because Suzannah had had a poo. I had never changed a nappy in my life and wanted someone to show me how. The auxiliary gritted her teeth and scraped all the tar-like substance off my daughter�s bottom, legs, back and babygro before reassuringly patting my shoulder and disappearing back to her post in the nursery. I cringe when I think about that now, but at the time I thought it was a perfectly reasonable request. |
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| So when this long suffering nurse saw my light come up on her board she must have thought �Oh, please, not that idiot again!� I began to explain that I was having trouble with breast-feeding, but looking at her tired, overworked, underpaid, tolerant face I crumpled and instead, meekly asked for a bottle of formula. |
| As I fed my child this artificial substitute I cried my heart out for having failed her. Mother nature, I concluded, was not the benevolent old woman of miracles I had imagined. She was an absolute monster to put me through all this, and I cursed her for it repeatedly under my breath between sobs. However, the change in my baby was incredible. She stopped shouting at me, and instead turned into a text-book baby who was changed, fed, winded and put down to sleep for about four hours each time. She was happy, so I allowed the guilt to subside, and left hospital with renewed confidence. However, I became engorged and my husband called the doctor, fearing mastitis. He thought the doctor would agree that bottle-feeding would be best, given the circumstances, although I still felt quite low about it. The doctor, to my extreme surprise, told me to resume breast-feeding. It wasn�t too late, she said. �But my boobs are killing me!� I cried. The doctor assured me that this would improve quickly, and prescribed, oddly, pile cream, which she insisted would numb my poor nipples enough for the discomfort (Discomfort!!!? Please! ) to be borne. For two further weeks I spoilt Suzannah�s peace by shoving my boobs in her face when all she wanted was a bottle. We were both getting very upset at feeding time and I finally realised it simply wasn�t meant to be and gave her a bottle of formula. Suzannah confirmed this by sleeping through the night for the very first time. |