I’m the oldest of five kids. My husband has only one sister. Together, we knew that we wanted a large family. Yet, somehow, motherhood still came as a complete shock to me. I stumbled to breastfeed my first child and fed her some formula “on the sly” while I still figured out the damn process. I struggled to breastfeed my second exclusively. Somehow, I did, but I was diagnosed with post-partum depression when she was two months old. We had a space of time after she was born, and I learned whatever I could to breastfeed. I was determined to breastfeed any future children because what good mom would not want to give her the benefits of never getting sick, Einsteinian IQ, smoking hot body, and perfect social standing?
My third was born, and I tried to breastfeed her too. And at her four-month check, her ribs were showing, and our family doctor was worried. Tests that he ordered were not alarming, but did indicate developing problems. He referred me to a pediatric specialist. Dr. K was a godsend. He quickly went through a check, then just said, “ She’s just hungry, Paula.”
He took a little preparatory breath. “I hesitate to say this directly, but can you give her formula?” Honestly, I did feel a small punch to the gut—my mother had breastfed all of us, why couldn’t I?—and the thought of denying my child the supposed benefits seemed so…selfish.
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