One would think that such an experience would discourage anyone from a second attempt, but it did not. When my second daughter, Jessica, arrived after a very short, drug-free labour at two o-clock in the afternoon, I found myself with plenty of energy after delivery and put her to the breast within minutes. I knew what to expect this time and did not leap six feet into the air when she latched on. Jess fed beautifully, and continued to do so several weeks after I took her home.
This is where my problems began. There were three problems in all. The first was that her nappies were not getting wet enough for my liking, even though she was feeding every hour for nearly an hour. The second was that she was feeding every hour for nearly an hour. The third was that Suzannah was now a demanding two year old and did not much care for being ousted in the attention stakes by this new creature who didn�t know when to shut up.
And so I found myself in a new dilemma altogether. Should I follow my maternal instincts, or drop my principals and save my toddler any further upset? My husband tried to help, but after a week on paternity leave he returned to work leaving me with a heart-wrenching choice to make. The practical choice won. I put Jess on the bottle after just a few weeks and found I suddenly had time to do the housework and make platicine models of Pingu. It worked out well for the family, but I still could not shake the feeling that somehow I was not fulfilling my basic natural responsibilities as a mother. I continued to carry this guilt for the next two years.
My first son, Joe, came along then. I had a feeling he was going to be a boy because I had a terrible third trimester and the pregnancy over-ran by two weeks, entirely different from when I was carrying the girls. Typical man, I thought, gives me indigestion and turns up late for a really important date. Again it was a short labour and relatively easy birth which left me with enough energy to put him dutifully to the breast.
I was rather surprised to find that he didn�t want to know.
Having bawled his head off for half an hour after the birth, Joe decided he couldn�t be bothered with all the hub-bub and went to sleep. Now, Joe takes his sleep very seriously indeed, and even at such a tender age enjoyed a full eight hours, by which time I was frantic that he would starve to death if I didn�t do something. Resisting the temptation to prod him awake I watched and waited. Eventually he yawned, opened his eyes and proceeded to scream at me at an absolutely incredible volume until I offered him the breast. Five minutes later, he was sound asleep again, but was up again within the hour demanding more. This cycle continued for about two weeks, until he only appeared to feed once every six hours, but it was for the full six hours. The worst time was when my milk came in. My breasts were so heavy and sore that I cringed with the anticipation of further pain each time he cried, but I took a couple of paracetamol, gritted my teeth and persevered. During each rare break I would smother myself with nipple cream and cold Savoy cabbage leaves as my poor nipples cracked, bled and throbbed. Then the pain seemed to smoothly change into a sensation, and not a particularly unpleasant one either. It was the sensation I had longed for since my first baby had been born. A feeling of coming home, of love, of belonging, and of complete maternal satisfaction.
Finally, I had made it. |
