The New Plan

We fed Bebe every two hours just as we had always done, but without the breast feeding it was much faster. It still took between thirty and forty minutes to give her a two ounce bottle, then I would pump for ten minutes. I was still only able to pump six ounces ever 24 hours, but I felt like it was better than nothing. I would give her the breast milk on her 4:00 A.M. feeding. I noticed that she still drank the breast milk much faster. It was like she was hungry for it. It took her a half hour to drink a two ounce bottle of formula, but it only took her ten minutes to drink six ounces of breast milk! If my milk had only come in the way it was supposed to perhaps there never would have been a problem, but I digress.
We continued to visit the doctors office twice a week. I was assured that now that she was on mostly formula with a small breast milk supplement she would grow much more quickly, but really she was growing the the same slow and steady pace. The other infants her age were gaining more and faster. Bebe was slipping down the chart. By the end of that first month she had slipped from somewhere around the 35th percentile down to the 11th percentile. When they would show me her growth chart compared to everyone else the results were almost unbelievable to me. Bebe was still about five ounces below her birth weight, while other children had not only regained their birth weight but had gained a few pounds!
There were other issues troubling me too. People say the strangest things to new mothers, and I think I have heard them all. Bebe is her daddy's girl. She looks almost exactly like him, and when you see pictures of him as a child compared to Bebe they look like the same child. The only way you can tell them apart is the fact that Bebe had a ribbon in her hair from the time she was a day old. That being said, she doesn't look much like me, and when she was tiny she looked nothing like me. in that first month Bebe's skin was very dark due to her jaundice, she had black hair, and blue eyes. I have very fair skin, blond hair, and light brown, sometimes hazel eyes. We looked as different as night and day. I would take her shopping and every few steps someone would stop me and ask to see the baby. This was a very common conversation,
Random Stranger:"Oh, can I take a peek at the baby?"
Me:"Sure."
R.S.:"Oh just look at her! Oh she is a beautiful baby. She must be adopted."
Me:"Nope, she is all mine."
R.S."Oh, it's just that she doesn't look a thing like you. I never would have thought she was your biological child!"
Me:"Thanks... I guess."
It was much easier when my husband was with me. People still made the same comments, but I could just say. "I know she doesn't look a thing like me, but do you see the man walking two feet behind me? That is her father." Then they would say, "Oh, she looks just like her daddy! How cute." Yes, how cute indeed.
My very favorite comment ever was made by a little old lady who stopped me to comment on Bebe's hair. She came right up to me grabbed me by the arm and said,"I just have to ask, is your little one wearing a hair piece, or it that really her hair!" I started laughing. I couldn't stop. I was seriously I was cracking up. I thought she was joking, but she wasn't. It took me a minute to compose myself. Then I managed to blurt out something like,"No, it is her natural hair. Luckily she was born with those two lovely inches of thick black hair, because it is very difficult to find a newborn hair piece that looks authentic."
I couldn't' believe it. Time was flying by so quickly. Bebe was nearly one month old, and her formal introduction to our little community was coming up in just a few day. It was sure to be another wild adventure.

Death of a Dream

We returned from our road trip on a Sunday evening, and for the first time since Bebe's birth we had her all to ourselves. Yes, my husband would have to go to work whenever a job called him out, and yes, Bebe would have to visit the doctor at least twice that week. Other than that we had all the time in the world to be together.
I spent my time rocking her and singing to her. I would look at her and think to myself,'Why am I so stressed about this silly weight issue? She is fine!' And she was beyond fine. She did sleep a lot, but she had long periods of wakefulness, and during these she was bright, and happy. She was very alert right from the start. There are things that doctors will tell you about newborns, like they don't smile it is gas, or they may be smiling, but it is just a subconscious reaction to a feeling of well being. What? Isn't that what a smile is? When I smile, I don't think to myself, 'This event makes me very happy. I believe the time has come to express this happiness by bearing my teeth in a gesture of pleasure.'
They also say that babies don't track people or things with there eyes for several months. Yes they do! Bebe would watch me leave the room, and then watch as I came back, and every evening when her father would come home Bebe would hear his voice, and start searching the room for him. If that isn't tracking I guess I just don't understand that either.
I loved the time I spent with Bebe. I found myself holding her for hours on end. I really never set her down. Even while she napped I held her.
I would stare at her while she slept. I would focus all my attention on one strand of hair, or one eyelash.
There was one vein on her temple that seemed to hold a great deal of interest for me. I would stare at it marveling at it's perfect construction. It was as though I had a microscope, and from this vein I could see her whole body. I would think about the way she had grown inside me one cell at a time to create this living breathing being.
Then I would think to myself,'What have I done to deserve this amazing little child. Why has my father in heaven blessed me with this gift? How can I be expected to bring her light, and knowledge, and truth when I know so little?'
Then I would stop myself from thinking this way. I felt that this type of thought was a very slippery slope leading to postpartum depression. I would then dry my tears, and take a page from the old Saturday Night Live skit with Stewart Smally, find a mirror look into it and tell myself,"I'm good enough. I'm smart enough. And dog-gone-it people like me!"
At the end of that first month Bebe and I were at a routine appointment, and she still hadn't reached her birth weight. I didn't know what to think. Was there a medical reason for her small size, or was it all my fault? This lead to only two conclusions in my mind neither of which were true. These conclusions were that Bebe was ill, sick, not well. This wasn't true,and since this wasn't true that only left one other conceivable conclusion. I was a bad mother. I told myself to toughen up. Bad mother or not, I was the only mother Bebe had. This meant I was both the worst, and the best.
Then Nurse H. told me what I had to do. Breast feeding just wasn't working. She said I could still pump if I felt like it, and that any amount of breast milk was better than none. I conceded. I left this appointment feeling crushed, but that was nothing new.
As usual I went home, nursed my child for the last time, pumped a few ounces of milk, put the baby in her crib for a nap. I started the shower jumped in and had a nice long cry.
I emerged from the shower a stronger woman. Yes, breast feeding was over, and I mourned the lost of it for myself, and for Bebe. I new that it just wasn't working for us. I was sad to lose that connection with my child, but I felt it was in her best interest. I vowed to pump as much as I could every day for as long as I could, and I knew this was the best choice for my child.