The costs of supplementing
We took Signe in for her four-month check up on Wednesday and, for the most part, we got a gold star for our parenting skills. Signe met all her developmental milestones and the doctor even called her Supergirl (because she’s so active and strong). However, when we learned that Sig is in the 75th percentile for height but only the 6th percentile for weight, the doctor suggested I up my milk production by adding a fifth pumping session to my day, preferably just before I go to bed.
That night, I went home and tried it. After putting Signe to bed, pumping, and doing my nightly routine of brushing my teeth, taking out my contacts, etc., more than an hour had gone by and I was exhausted.
Despite being so tired I wanted to die, I got very little sleep that night, unable to keep visions of my new life as a dairy cow at bay. I got up Thursday morning for my 6:00 a.m. pumping session completely drained and feeling very defeated. I worked from home, cried all day, called my mom, called Greg, called my counselor, called my mom again, called Greg again, and came to the decision that the only option that allowed me to keep breastfeeding without a hundred daily pumping sessions was to up Sig’s daily caloric intake by supplementing with formula.
This decision was heartbreaking. I know there are just as many healthy formula-fed babies as there are breastfed babies. I know that breastfeeding Signe for over four months gives her a great boost and that there is no shame in supplementing. And I have no judgment of moms who use formula (whether by choice or not) to feed their babies. But I had a plan of giving Signe only breastmilk until she started eating solid food at six months. And that plan is now gone. And I’m not very good at dealing with changing plans.
On Fridays, Signe spends the day with Oma and Abuelito (a.k.a. GTB’s parents). Since they know Sig so well and only live about ten minutes from my office, we decided that they should be the ones to try formula with her for the first time. I figured if it didn’t go well, they at least have extra breastmilk in the freezer and I’m just a short car ride away if they need me. But most importantly, I didn’t want to be around when she drank the formula. Both because it’s believed that if a baby can smell the real thing, she won’t take formula, and babies can smell their mom’s milk from 20 feet away (supposedly), and because, melodramatic as it is, I couldn’t bear to watch her drink something that didn’t come from me.
Reportedly, Signe took her first bottle of formula without incident. It took her a long time to get hungry again, which I’d heard would be true with formula, but other than that, all seemed exactly as it had been before.
Until we got Signe home last night and she took her first post-formula poop.
First of all, it wasn’t the long, explosive, gas-filled BM we’re used to. Signe briefly made her little poop face (tongue half-way out, eyes wide, face red, followed a little grunt) and next thing we know, the whole room smells like a Honeybucket. I handed her to GTB who put her down on the changing table, took off her diaper, and turned green almost immediately. He started yelling “Wuh, whoa!” as he put his face in his armpit. A second later, he was pleading for help. I grabbed her ankles and went through about ten butt wipes as he took the offending diaper to the garbage can where he double-bagged it and threw it outside.
We knew that at some point, Signe’s diaper changes would go from non-smelly, mustard-consistency breastmilk poop to real grown-up person poop, but I didn’t expect it to happen overnight. And so now I’m suddenly reconsidering my relationship with my pump. That thing may suck the life out of me, literally, but at least it doesn’t turn Signe’s butt into a biohazard.
And being a dairy cow isn’t so bad, is it?