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.