Breastfeeding Struggle Quotes

What followed was a blissful year. That is the most annoying thing in the world to say, in a world full of mothers who struggle with breast-feeding, high fevers, long days, and late nights. But I can only try to redeem myself by saying that I was completely caught off guard by my outrageous happiness.

Kristen had dreamed of having children since she was herself a child and had always thought that she would love motherhood as much as she would love her babies. “I know that being a mom will be demanding,” she told me once. “But I don’t think it will change me much. I’ll still have my life, and our baby will be part of it.” She envisioned long walks through the neighborhood with Emily. She envisioned herself mastering the endlessly repeating three-hour cycle of playing, feeding, sleeping, and diaper changing. Most of all, she envisioned a full parenting partnership, in which I’d help whenever I was home—morning, nighttime, and weekends. Of course, I didn’t know any of this until she told me, which she did after Emily was born. At first, the newness of parenthood made it seem as though everything was going according to our expectations. We’ll be up all day and all night for a few weeks, but then we’ll hit our stride and our lives will go back to normal, plus one baby. Kristen took a few months off from work to focus all of her attention on Emily, knowing that it would be hard to juggle the contradicting demands of an infant and a career. She was determined to own motherhood. “We’re still in that tough transition,” Kristen would tell me, trying to console Emily at four A.M. “Pretty soon, we’ll find our routine. I hope.” But things didn’t go as we had planned. There were complications with breast-feeding. Emily wasn’t gaining weight; she wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t play. She was born in December, when it was far too cold to go for walks outdoors. While I was at work, Kristen would sit on the floor with Emily in the dark—all the lights off, all the shades closed—and cry. She’d think about her friends, all of whom had made motherhood look so easy with their own babies. “Mary had no problem breast-feeding,” she’d tell me. “Jenny said that these first few months had been her favorite. Why can’t I get the hang of this?” I didn’t have any answers, but still I offered solutions, none of which she wanted to hear: “Talk to a lactation consultant about the feeding issues.” “Establish a routine and stick to it.” Eventually, she stopped talking altogether. While Kristen struggled, I watched from the sidelines, unaware that she needed help. I excused myself from the nighttime and morning responsibilities, as the interruptions to my daily schedule became too much for me to handle. We didn’t know this was because of a developmental disorder; I just looked incredibly selfish. I contributed, but not fully. I’d return from work, and Kristen would go upstairs to sleep for a few hours while I’d carry Emily from room to room, gently bouncing her as I walked, trying to keep her from crying. But eventually eleven o’clock would roll around and I’d go to bed, and Kristen would be awake the rest of the night with her. The next morning, I would wake up and leave for work, while Kristen stared down the barrel of another day alone. To my surprise, I grew increasingly disappointed in her: She wanted to have children. Why is she miserable all the time? What’s her problem? I also resented what I had come to recognize as our failing marriage. I’d expected our marriage to be happy, fulfilling, overflowing with constant affection. My wife was supposed to be able to handle things like motherhood with aplomb. Kristen loved me, and she loved Emily, but that wasn’t enough for me. In my version of a happy marriage, my wife would also love the difficulties of being my wife and being a mom. It hadn’t occurred to me that I’d have to earn the happiness, the fulfillment, the affection. Nor had it occurred to me that she might have her own perspective on marriage and motherhood.

One of the most helpful things a partner can do is to be a buffer between you and other relatives and friends who may be uninformed or even opposed to breastfeeding. If your mother or mother-in-law didn’t breastfeed, or tried to breastfeed for a short time but ended up weaning early, she might feel that your decision to nurse your baby is a subtle way of criticizing her choices and decisions. If breastfeeding was difficult for her, she may want to protect you from the pain and struggles she went through. Or she may feel that a longer breastfeeding relationship than hers is not only long but wrong.

At this time, many other families, one at a time, visited for a while. Each left after a month, using the same reason that our original seed family gave to us: they lacked fellowship and they feared for their children in a church without other like-minded families. Over the years, I have contemplated what this really means. What does it really mean to “lack fellowship”? At least as it regards the handful of families that showed immediate excitement and then after a month a changed heart, this is what “lacking fellowship” means. It means that the family needs to be in a church made up of people who are just like they, who raise their children using the same childrearing methods, who take the same stance on birth control, schooling, voting, breastfeeding, dress codes, white flour, white sugar, gluten, childhood immunizations, the observance of secular and religious holidays. We encountered families who feared diversity with a primal fear. They often told us that they didn’t want to “confuse” their children by exposing them to differences in parenting standards among Christians. I suspect that they feared that deviation from their rules might provide a window for children to see how truly diverse the world is and that temptation might lead them astray. Over and over and over again I have heard this line of thinking from the fearful and the faith-struggling. We in the church tend to be more fearful of the (perceived) sin in the world than of the sin in our own hearts. Why is that?

In the struggle for power, or simply economic survival in the modern world, many women who have children find that they must curtail mothering, and restricting lactation is part of this. Yet lactation, a process which evolved before gestation, is the very core of our identity.

While women workers were struggling to keep their children fed and alive, their leisured sisters were convinced by doctors that they were too delicate to do anything, let alone breastfeed babies.

What I do articulate throughout Back to the Breast is that the ideology of natural motherhood shaped the path of breast-feeding’s return to popularity in every way. The marriage of breastfeeding to the ideology of natural motherhood was an important component in the early back-to-the-breast movement and this fact has continued to have meaningful implications for breastfeeding practice up through today. While it has competed with other ideological constructions in shaping ideas and practices surrounding breastfeeding over much of the last century, natural motherhood has fundamentally influenced how Americans today have come to think about breastfeeding. In the chapters that follow, I focus on the persistence in the belief by countless Americans over the past century that breastfeeding holds value and meaning that transcends nutritional adequacy and infant survival. I trace the efforts, science, struggles, triumphs, and failures of the people and ideas behind the back-to-the-breast movement over much of the last century so that we might better imagine a society in which all mothers receive the support they need to make their experiences as mothers personally rewarding and fulfilling.