Welcome to Fearless Formula Feeder Fridays, a weekly guest post feature that strives to build a supportive community of parents united through our common experiences, open minds, and frustration with the breast-vs-bottle bullying and bullcrap.

Please note, these stories are for the most part unedited, and do not necessarily represent the FFF’s opinions. They also are not political statements – this is an arena for people to share their thoughts and feelings, and I hope we can all give them the space to do so.

I had a weird, somewhat schizophrenic experience this week. A fellow blogger asked me to participate in a Twitter party intended to encourage a certain formula company to remove GMOs from its products. I agreed, not because I have been convinced by the research that there truly is a risk conferred by the use of GMO-derived ingredients in infant formula, but because I understand the concerns of parents about this issue. And I applaud those formula feeding parents who speak up about the quality of the product they are using – we should be doing this, and the formula companies should be listening rather than wasting their time developing new ways to appeal to breastfeeding moms. 

Anyway- the point is, I found myself gritting my teeth as a ton of misinformation was thrown about in various well-meaning tweets, including some about homemade formula as a “healthier” alternative than GMO-ridden formula. The group propagating this alternative accused me of not respecting the choices of mothers because I expressed concern over their promotion of a homemade formula recipe as the “next best thing” to breastmilk. This struck a nerve, because in my mind, FFF stands for two things – 1) a critical look at the evidence and dogma surrounding infant feeding, and 2) a kinder, gentler parenting world where we respect that someone else’s choices have nothing to do with our own, and we should trust that s/he is doing the best thing for her/his family and baby. Sometimes, these two goals clash. 

So, when I read the last paragraph of L.’s story, below, I felt a little guilty. Because on some level, while I wasn’t necessarily “judging” parents who choose homemade formula, I don’t condone it, based on the medical evidence that commercial formula is a safer choice. How is that any different from a breastfeeding advocate saying she can’t condone formula because the research shows risks to formula fed babies? 

The answer? I don’t know. But I *think* it has to do with how we communicate our biases, our opinions, and our experiences. I think it’s okay for someone to say, “based on my reading of the research (giving citations as needed), my understanding is that x is a safer choice. However, I respect every parent’s right to make the best informed decision for his or her family.” It’s okay to ask someone to calmly discuss the evidence if you are truly concerned that they are putting a child at risk. It’s not okay to publicly chastise those who make choices you wouldn’t make for your own family; it’s not okay to make across-the-board character or value judgments on someone, especially someone whose story is unknown to you. 

I’d like to think that if we can make these distinctions, we can, as L. so inspiringly says, “take the lead” in changing the judgmental, closed-minded, polarized nature of the parenting community.  

Happy Friday, fearless ones,

The FFF

***

L.’s Story

It wasn’t until a week after my son was born, and it was determined that he wasn’t gaining weight at the rate he should be, that I ever thought the ‘natural ability’ to breastfeed wouldn’t come easily for me. I cried after hearing he was underweight. I had worked so hard, and it wasn’t enough. Little did I know this was just the beginning of my breastfeeding issues.
I was determined to help my son gain some weight before his next appointment. I had numerous mid-wives and a mid-wife/lactation consultant observe his latch, his time feeding, and provide any advice they could. No one saw any issues. When I started getting blocked milk ducts in my left breast I was informed that they would go away in 2-3 days at most. Just keep nursing. A week passed, but the blocked ducts remained.

Not long after, a bump developed on the areola just under my left nipple. The mid-wife/lactation consultant didn’t think much of it. “Not mastitis,” she said. “You would have a fever”. Nursing became very painful for me, and my son appeared as hesitant about latching on as I was about him doing it. Most attempts were physical struggles that involved tears for us both.

Soon the bump would get large enough to be in his way. “Keep nursing through it,” I was told. I tried every position imaginable, even hovering over him upside down on all fours so the bump was not affecting his lower lip. How long did the lactation consultant think I could keep this up? It seemed like a cruel joke.

I went to a doctor (not mine) who felt that the advice I had been given sounded good to her, and provided me with some type of medicine to help. What this was to do for me, or why, my husband and I can’t even remember – we were in such a fog! All I know is that nothing improved.

Still convinced it was not mastitis, the mid-wife/lactation consultant encouraged me to try an ultrasound session to break up the blocked milk ducts. For three days (the famous Dr. Newman website had advised two would do it, but the physiotherapist recommended “just one more session”) I exposed my left breast to an ultrasound wand directly followed by unsuccessful, and painful, nursing sessions. The physiotherapist kept asking if the wand was emitting too much heat. I told her it didn’t feel too hot, I’m sure it’s fine (it wasn’t, but I wouldn’t find that out until a week later). The ultrasound sessions did not unblock the ducts, or get rid of the large bump on my breast. I now refer to the $300 appointment fees as my “insult to injury”. My son and I continued our stressful feeding sessions which were recommended at least every two hours to help with my pain (but what about his?) The milk had a green hue – GREEN! I felt awful, but was told it wouldn’t affect him.  It seemed torturous at the time, but it still wasn’t over.

Needless to say, I had already been losing faith in the lactation consultant/mid-wife care I was receiving, (not all consultant/mid-wife care, just what I had been getting) but she was a professional who knew better than me…right? After a tearful phone call to the mid-wife/lactation consultant telling her that the third ultrasound session hadn’t worked, she gave up on me. She said she didn’t know what else she could do for me, “it isn’t mastitis because you have no fever – I don’t know…just call your doctor.” Every instinct I had told me that this was what I should have done a long time ago, but I had ignored them. Besides, the doctor I saw (again, not mine) had agreed. When I called my doctor’s office the receptionist was ready to tell me there was no chance to see her for weeks, that is, until I told her that I was going to ‘give up’ nursing. I was told to come in right away.

My doctor immediately diagnosed it as mastitis with an abscess on my left breast. She had me on the table ready to drain it right then and there. As she was touching the area around the abscess, I started crying in pain. I suddenly realized why – the ultrasound treatments, with the wand on high heat, had burned a large area around my nipple! The fluid had made the area so numb I didn’t feel it, and the heat certainly didn’t help prevent the abscess from growing! The initial pin prick to relieve the abscess turned out not to be enough, and the doctor froze the area to use a scalpel. I will never forget the sound of my doctor’s voice as she asked my husband to keep bringing her towels. I couldn’t bring myself to look at what she was doing. After the traumatic experience was over, the doctor advised that I still try feeding from the right breast, but to supplement with formula. I also had to clear out any remaining green stuff from the open wound. I couldn’t do it – my wonderful husband sat by my side every few hours for three days tending to this awful task. Upon our return to the doctor’s office later that week, the nurses all knew his name and what he had done for me. They were impressed!

Not surprisingly, it didn’t take long for some milk ducts in my right breast to block too. Even with the recommended repeated nursing they did not clear up. My son was switched to formula full time, and thrived immediately. Like other mothers before me, I wondered why I had waited so long – he was finally getting what was ‘best’ for him!

The lactation consultant/mid-wife didn’t contact me again until a week later asking if things were better. I told her what had happened, and her reply was, “But you didn’t have a fever! You didn’t seem very sick! Most people who had it as bad as you don’t even have the strength to get out of bed! We’ll get you back nursing in no time”. I had had ‘minor surgery’ as the doctor put it, and even that didn’t stop the pressure to breastfeed! Needless to say I didn’t ‘get back’ to it. It was more than 8 months before the ducts in my breasts unblocked themselves.

15 months ago, I was attending a mid-wife appointment (a different person this time!), pregnant with my second child. The mid-wife quizzed me on what issues breastfeeding can prevent. I started rhyming off the usual list – obesity, lower IQ, cancer etc., just to get her off my case, but my anger started to rise. Here I was, a formula fed baby myself with none of these issues, with my smart, healthy, formula fed toddler sitting on my lap, listing off all of the things I had ‘subjected’ him to. I told her what had happened to me the first time around, that formula feeding was the right decision for us, and that I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again; in fact, I might just start with formula this time.

My daughter was born this past October, and though I had mixed feelings about it I did try breastfeeding again. Most people who knew my background were surprised I was thinking of it. Even the mid-wife who delivered her understood if I didn’t want to. I felt no pressure this time knowing that formula was an option I was happy to take at any point without feeling guilty. I was successful in providing her with the colostrum, but my body made the decision for me after that. The scar on my left areola proved to be an issue, and I was just not able to produce an ounce over the course of a day. In addition to the physical limitations, I knew I had some emotional ones too. Not only do I still have to hold myself back from taking it personally when someone asks if my crying child is hungry, I think of how long I let my son suffer while I tried to do what was ‘best’.

I’ve learned a lot from my experience, but what I really want to share is this: no one, not even the medical community, has all the answers (even Dr. Newman’s much lauded website!) So, when it comes to feeding your child, why let anyone make you second guess what feels right for you? Being a ‘Fearless Formula Feeder’ has made me a less judgmental person in all aspects of life, but most significantly when it comes to decisions made by other moms. Those who criticize have no idea about the personal challenges my family went through, so why should I assume I know what others have gone through too? Society has placed enough pressure and guilt on mothers for decisions they make; the choice (or the necessity) to formula feed should not be one of them. My wish is for all moms to support each other in making the right choices for their families on this issue, and in others. As formula feeding mothers who can empathize with each other, we should take the lead and only make positive comments instead of questioning or criticizing others. If we can do this, maybe others will follow and give all moms the respect they deserve.

***

Feel like sharing your story? Send it over to formulafeeders@gmail.com.

Welcome to Fearless Formula Feeder Fridays, a weekly guest post feature that strives to build a supportive community of parents united through our common experiences, open minds, and frustration with the breast-vs-bottle bullying and bullcrap.

Please note, these stories are for the most part unedited, and do not necessarily represent the FFF’s opinions. They also are not political statements – this is an arena for people to share their thoughts and feelings, and I hope we can all give them the space to do so.

Sarah, whose story is below, brings up a really interesting and important point, so often lost in this debate: the inability to/decision not to breastfeed is not specific to modern times. Babies have been fed with breastmilk substitutes for all of history – through wet nurses, animal milks, and ‘paps’. The formula companies capitalized on a need; they did not create it. Even if every formula manufacturer closed up shop tomorrow, there would be mothers who couldn’t or didn’t breastfeed. So rather than fighting this fact of life, perhaps we could entertain the possibility of working together to ensure that whatever substitute parents are using is the best it can be.

Happy Friday, fearless ones,

The FFF

***

Sarah’s Story

My story begins like many of the other mommies on this blog.  I was totally set on breastfeeding exclusively (although willing to pump so that my husband could help out with feedings).  I referred to formula as “crap” and mentally prepared myself for the struggles of breastfeeding.  I had a friend of mine tell me how difficult it was but I thought to myself, “No problem!  It won’t happen to me.  And even if it does, I’ll be stronger than the others and see it through to success!”.  WRONG!

After having high blood pressure and unbelievable fluid retention, the doctor scheduled me to be induced, much to my displeasure.  I just knew that it would end in a c-section.  I was right.  And while my c-section was fantastic (that may sound strange but when they give you that wonderful body numbing spinal tap that makes you feel all warm and pain free and to hear your baby cry within about 20 minutes, it’s just what you need after 7 hours of a completely failed induction), I had no idea how a c-section would play into making breastfeeding success even harder than it already is.  Once they pulled him out, they allowed me to give him a kiss on the cheek and then it was hours until I finally got to hold him.  Nevermind that the best time to get those babies on the boob is immediately after they’re born when their suckling reflex is ready to go.  With a c-section, you don’t get that option.  They whisked me away to a recovery room to monitor me coming off of the spinal tap.  Then I was finally put into a post-partum room.  Right about the time they were on their way to bring me my newborn son (at least two hours after birth), my spinal tap was completely starting to wear off.  I knew that as soon as they gave me medication for the pain, that I would pass out and not be able to hold him.  I tried to hold off as long as I could, but after only having him in my arms for 5 minutes, I absolutely had to have medication.  Anyone who has ever had a c-section or any type of surgery really, knows what that incision pain feels like.  Can’t breathe pain.  Seconds after that demoral went through the IV, I passed my baby to my husband for fear of dropping him from the effects of the drug.

The rest is a blur.  All I clearly remember next is trying to get him to latch without success probably hours later.  But I wasn’t yet discouraged.  I knew that it could take several tries.  And I was assured that the lactation consultant would be there the next day to help me.  Each time we tried with him was unsuccessful.  He just wouldn’t latch.  So each time we tried without success, we gave him a bottle.  The boy had to eat something.

In the meantime, I was pumping in the hospital to get my milk supply started.  The lactation consultant told me I had flat and very large nipples that made it difficult, but not impossible, to nurse.  So again, I was hopeful.  My first night in the hospital after the c-secion, I couldn’t get out of bed.  Not only had I just had surgery that morning, but I still had a catheter in.  I was also given an ambian so that I could get a full nights rest so I could heal that much quicker.  Not to mention my husband and I had already been awake for more than 24 hours at that point.  Needless to say, my baby went to the nursery.  There was no way I would have been able to get to him in the middle of the night nor did I have any desire to try when I had been recently sliced open.

Once at home, I continued to put my baby to the breast before offering him a bottle.  Not only could he just not seem to stay on that nipple, he fought me every time.  He seemed to hate the work that had to be done to breastfeed.  So he would get a bottle and I would manually pump.  About five days after we brought him home, I decided to exclusively pump all of my milk and put it in a bottle.  I bought a double electric breastpump and embarked on what would be some of the most miserable weeks of my exsistence.  Milk supply was never my problem, but overanalyzing every ounce that I pumped in a session, and wondering whether it would be enough was a problem.  My daily worth was measured in ounces.  I wrote everything down: when I last pumped, how many ounces it was, how many ounces he ate, blah, blah, blah.  I became “proud” of my milk stash that I was storing in the refrigerator.  But, both I and my baby were miserable.  Everytime I sat down to pump for one of my five to six thirty minute sessions a day, my baby seemed to need something.  I was so obsessed with giving him “good mommy milk” that I would ignore his cries and say to him “Just give me ten more minutes, I’m almost done!.”  Yeah, right.  Ten minutes to an infant is like a lifetime.  It got to the point where I felt like I was putting the task of pumping over my child’s needs for attention, love, etc..  Not to mention the feeling of being a slave to the pump.  I had to schedule my entire day around it.  If I wanted to take the baby for a walk, I had to schedule it around pumping.  Forget going out of the house.  I barely would have time to make it across town to the store before I needed to head home and immediately strip my top off and attach myself to that machine.  My husband would make mooing sounds at me and refer to me as “Bessie”.  He did it out of love and it did make the situation less dreadful, but it was a testament to how ridiculous the whole situation was.  My child didn’t know what I was trying so hard to do.  He just knew that not only was Mommy miserable and cranky, but that she sometimes ignored him to “just get one more ounce.”

For weeks, I debated if and when I should quit.  I talked to my husband relentlessly about it until he could have screamed.  Everyone around me was so supportive in my decision to possibly quit, except me.  I felt like I was taking away from my son what I had no problem making but that he just had a problem eating.  I also felt like I was putting an incedible burden on my husband, the bread winner, to purchase formula.  But finally, one day, after three months, I’d had enough.  I didn’t go over it in my mind any more.  I cleared my mind of any distracting thought and went through the physical motions of standing up, putting my clothes back on, turning off the pump, and putting it in the closet.  I shut the closet door, backed away slowly, and didn’t second guess myself.  I stored my last batch of milk away and felt absolutely awful.

Six months later, I am soooo over it.  My son is perfectly healthy.  No illnesses, no issues.  I don’t feel guilty about pulling a bottle out in public.  I don’t feel guilty about purchasing formula.  In that six months since quitting the pump, I had to do a lot of reading and thinking to help myself feel better about my decision to formula feed.

I came across so many articles about the history of breastfeeding.  As it turns out, women have had trouble with it since the dawn of time.  There have been 4,000 year old baby bottles discovered among ancient ruins.  The first breast pump was invented in the 1800s just proving that women have always had trouble.  Wet nurses would have been needed not only for the wealthy who chose not to breastfeed their own babies, but for women who couldn’t for whatever reason.  Nature isn’t perfect.  When women have trouble getting pregnant, do these same so-called “breastfeeding police” blame these women for not being able to conceive?  No, they see it as a shame.  Why wouldn’t troubles with breastfeeding be viewed the same way?  And why in the world is breastmilk hailed as this “magical elixir”?  It is not a cure all, prevant all for illnesses or other medical issues.  An entire generation of people (the babyboomers) were raised on a combination of canned evaporated cow’s milk, water, and CORN SYRUP!!!  Yes, the corn syrup that gets such a bad rap as being practically poison in your child’s cereal.  Yet this entire generation isn’t walking around with neverending ear infections, or whatever else people claim that breastfeeding prevents.  Take my siblings and I as an example.  I was breastfed for four months.  My sister not at all, and my brother for 9 exclusive months.  Guess who was the sickest out of the three?  Yup, my brother.  Bronchitis and pnuemonia at 6 months, sick several times a year, and most recently had his tonsils removed for excessive sore throats.  I had terrible ear infections that caused my temperature to spike every time.  My sister, on the other hand, is rarely sick and rarely was as a child.  So my conclusion for my next child:  If he/she doesn’t take it from the tap, then it’s bottle and formula all the way.  And I’ll have a big smile on my face from that first scoop.

***

If you’d like to share your story for an upcoming FFF Friday, please email me at formulafeeders@gmail.com. It might take me six months to respond, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I’m just terrible with email. Be warned.

Welcome to Fearless Formula Feeder Fridays, a weekly guest post feature that strives to build a supportive community of parents united through our common experiences, open minds, and frustration with the breast-vs-bottle bullying and bullcrap.

Please note, these stories are for the most part unedited, and do not necessarily represent the FFF’s opinions. They also are not political statements – this is an arena for people to share their thoughts and feelings, and I hope we can all give them the space to do so.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about moms who combo feed, or who breastfed one child and formula fed another. I think they are too often left out of the breast/bottle conversation, which tends to operate in black and white, rather than shades of grey. (Am I the only one who thinks it sucks that this expression is now corrupted by pornographic associations? It was such a nice expression. Not that I’m vehemently opposed to pornographic associations, but…) It’s not fair, because they typically have some of the most interesting and thought-provoking points of view; they’ve seen both sides, understand the challenges, the psychology, and the societal pressures. We should be looking to them to lead the charge towards a more nuanced view of infant feeding. 

So, I’m thrilled that Kathryn is sharing her story this week, and I hope that it will inspire others with similar stories to write in and share their thoughts and experiences. This will help prove the point I’m always whining about, like a stubborn toddler (tough morning with Fearlette, can you tell?): this is not about breastfeeding mothers versus formula feeding mothers. It’s about dogmatic, insensitive, extremists versus moms just trying to do the best thing for their families and themselves. 

Happy Friday, fearless ones,

The FFF

*****

Kathryn’s Story

As a mom who FF my son and is now BF my daughter, I know that both sides need a support system.  It’s (not so) funny that when I was FF my son, I felt completely confident about my decision, but now 2.5 years later, as I’m BF my daughter, I feel guilty that I didn’t try harder, do more, talk to another consultant, etc., so that I could have BF him.  Here’s my story…

Both my kids were born via elective c-section (another controversial topic!).  Before my son was born in 2010, I did what a lot of first time moms do and read a lot of books, articles, and websites about babies.  Of course, I was bombarded with “breast is best.”  So I stocked up on nursing tops and bras, nipple cream, breast pads, and got the most expensive pump on the market.  I knew that it was going to be a little bit of a learning process, but I also read that it was “natural” and that babies will instinctively nurse, if we let them.

When my son was born, he refused to latch.  We would buck at the breast and push and kick me, which of course, although illogical, I took personally as a form of rejection.  Two lactation consultants saw me at the hospital and I distinctly remember the second one saying something along the lines of, “wow, he really doesn’t want to nurse.”  I even drove to the home of a La Leche League Leader 20 minutes away and she wasn’t able to help us.  (I’ve always wondered if I would have tried harder had she not said that to me).

Meanwhile, my son was losing weight like crazy so I started pumping and bottle feeding.  I pumped for four weeks, which meant that every two hours, I pumped for 20 minutes, fed my son what I pumped, and then cleaned my pump.  By the time I was done with that process, I had to do it all over again in an hour.  I was miserable.  (Looking back on it, I’m sad that I spent so much of my maternity leave this way.)  My husband, who has always been extremely supportive of my decisions, suggested that we just switch to formula so that I could get some sanity back.  And it was the best decision I could have made.  I was so much happier and got to enjoy my time with my little baby, rather than dreading the pump.  It turned out that he was tongue-tied and couldn’t latch, something that we didn’t discover until he was two months old.  I felt absolutely no guilt about FF because I knew it was the right decision for our family.

Fast forward two years and I was pregnant with my daughter.  I again said I would try BF.  I wasn’t as anxious this time around and knew that if things didn’t turn out, FF was a completely acceptable option.  But my little girl latched on like a champ and has been great at BF.  But I see all the posts on Babycenter that make the FF Moms feel horrible.  The message is so pervasive that even I have started feeling guilty about what I’m providing my daughter and denied from my son, even though he’s a happy and healthy toddler.  The ironic thing is, I’m back to pumping (at least for part of the day) because I work full-time.  And the days I don’t pump enough for my daughter to eat, I feel guilty about having to supplement with formula.  But why should I feel that way?  I’m doing what’s best for my family and I’m feeding my children!  I’m making the choices that are best for them and best for me and that should be enough.

The message I want to impart is that both methods have their rewards and challenges.  Although I have enjoyed BF my daughter, it started with cracked and bleeding nipples.  Not pretty.  Now we’re supplementing with formula for her day feedings because pumping at work got old, real fast.  It would be nice if us Moms could just support each other, rather than looking our noses down at others because the choices they make are not our own.  Organic or not?  Co-sleeping?  Baby-wearing?  Stay-at-home or working mom?  These are all decisions that we have to make for our individual situations.  I applaud all moms who care for and love their kiddos.  Period.

****

Feel like sharing your story? Email me: formulafeeders@gmail.com. 

Welcome to Fearless Formula Feeder Fridays, a weekly guest post feature that strives to build a supportive community of parents united through our common experiences, open minds, and frustration with the breast-vs-bottle bullying and bullcrap.

Please note, these stories are for the most part unedited, and do not necessarily represent the FFF’s opinions. They also are not political statements – this is an arena for people to share their thoughts and feelings, and I hope we can all give them the space to do so.

This week, I went on a television morning news show and, much to my chagrin, came off sounding more like a breastfeeding advocate than a defender of feeding choice. But that didn’t stop a few breastfeeding pages from starting writing campaigns to protest my “offensive” appearance. You know what they found offensive? That I suggested that pumping was hard. That I suggested even women who exclusively pump are made to feel guilty for not meeting the breastfeeding ideal. That I said some women can’t breastfeed, for emotional, physical, or workplace-related reasons.

I cannot understand how either of these assertions anti-breastfeeding in ANY way, to a rational human being. Pumping is hard, for many of us. That doesn’t mean that it’s not easy for some women, or that we shouldn’t do it.  And why is it considered detrimental to breastfeeding mothers to suggest that some women can’t breastfeed, or simply don’t want to?

This, my friends, is the reason FFF must exist. Because it doesn’t matter that we support breastfeeding. It doesn’t matter what our reasons are for choosing, or being “forced” to formula feed. The people who have created this parenting powder-keg don’t care about personal choice, personal feelings, or personal situations. They are not advocating for breastfeeding. They are advocating for censorship; for brainwashing; for dogmatic agreement from every segment of society that their choice is not only the healthiest, but the ONLY choice, and anyone who suggests that a woman has a fundamental right to formula feed should be promptly silenced. 

Why am I using this rant to open this week’s FFF Friday? Well, because Meredith’s story is my new battle cry. She is someone who opted not to breastfeed from the start. And she feels no guilt, no shame, no regret – she can see how ridiculous this situation is, and how amazing her child is, and feel proud of her own unique, personal choices. I want to hear from more women like Meredith; I want them to join our ranks, to encourage us to fight a bit harder, to not wallow in guilt, and to rage against the structures which create a divide between mothers and allow this us vs. them bullsh-t to continue.  I love Meredith’s last line – the one I chose for the title of the piece – and I want us all to start living it, breathing it, and repeating it:

I simply cannot fathom why I’m supposed to feel guilty.

Yes, yes, and a thousand times yes.

Happy Friday, fearless ones,

The FFF

*** 

Meredith’s Story

I started following the FFF Facebook page and blog a month or two before my daughter was born, so admittedly I haven’t been around that long, but I have noticed that as wonderful as the posts are, I don’t see a whole lot of unwavering, unapologetic, completely unashamed pronouncements of being an exclusive formula feeder from very many women. There are an awful lot of moms who seem to tell their stories of ending up formula feeding after heartbreaking experiences with breastfeeding failures, and while that’s understandable it doesn’t exactly equal “unashamed.” I don’t mean to put anyone down, and I completely understand why they’re sharing their stories—there’s a grieving process for women who wanted to breastfeed and couldn’t, and they need to mourn. But as someone who genuinely feels no guilt, it stands out to me as odd on a page for the “Fearless” Formula Feeder that not many women say, “I didn’t even consider breastfeeding, I don’t regret it at all, and this is why.” So I thought I might share my story, which is one of exclusive formula feeding from day one, without shame, or guilt, or regret, to maybe reassure some women that their babies will still be beautiful and smart and amazing without breast milk, and that their health really, genuinely matters, and if they’re sacrificing their health to breastfeed, it’s really okay to say “It’s just not worth it” without all the guilt. You really can’t appreciate how important your health is until it’s gone for good, and anyone who tells you your health doesn’t matter deserves a punch in the face. You can always blame it on your hormones.

I have never once thought, “Oh, if only I’d breastfed, maybe my four month old daughter wouldn’t be so incredibly strong or ridiculously smart.” Seriously, my sister thinks my daughter’s a genius, my brother wonders if she’s a mutant, my husband’s godmother (who worked in a daycare for two decades) has never seen a baby like her, and everyone in the family is simply floored by how smart, alert, active, and happy she is, not to mention the fact that she’s gorgeous. I know every baby is beautiful to their mother, but when you are routinely stopped in stores by strangers who want to tell you how beautiful your baby is, or when your landlord sends you an email simply to say that your husband brought the baby when he dropped off the rent and she wanted to tell you how beautiful and happy your daughter is, you might have a really beautiful baby. All of this is without a single drop of breast milk. Not even the colostrum. My husband and I are actually somewhat afraid of how much more advanced she’d be than she is right now if she were getting the “magical properties” of breast milk and not just evil store brand formula. That’s right—we aren’t even feeding her the name brand stuff! Frankly I’m not sure the world is ready for her as an “inferior” formula fed kid. The planet might implode if she’d had access to the “super-awesome-ridiculously-superior goodness” of breast milk.

Alas, that was never going to be, and the world can blame me for my daughter not being able to reach her full superhuman potential of flight and x-ray vision because she was bottle fed (I accept this, the world is going to blame me for everything they deem wrong with her anyway). I genuinely don’t care if the world shakes its fist at me and declares, “She could have had a magic lasso and invisible plane if only you’d breastfed her!” Maybe that’s because I’m somewhat jaded. Maybe that’s because I don’t much care what random strangers think of me. Maybe that’s because I was 37 when I had her, so I’m very much an adult who knows how to stick up for herself and doesn’t buy into a lot of trendy mommy b.s., or take kindly to bullies. Maybe it’s because her dad was a breastfed baby and still has ADHD and dyslexia. But more likely it’s because I was a breastfed baby, and was still diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis when I was 24. My husband and I are living proof that breast milk isn’t magical, and I long ago had to come to terms with the fact that there are just going to be things I can’t do.

The list of things I can’t do because I need health insurance and my body has very finite limits, but had planned to do when I was 24 and my robust health took a permanent powder:

• Backpack across Europe.
• Move to New York to become a Broadway star.
• Move to Hollywood and couch surf until I made it into movies.
• Become a freelance journalist while writing the great American novel.
• Front a rock band called Drunk Boy and tour the country covering ‘80s songs by British bands (you probably don’t know that the bone holding your vocal chords, the hyoid, is a joint and will swell if you have a joint disease—singing is to my hyoid bone what running up and down stairs would be to my knees).

I know you can’t possibly think I was actually serious about any of these things. Even at 24 most people have a sense of reality. Au contraire. I was as serious about these as a heart attack.

When I was four I decided I wanted to be an actress, since it was the only way I was ever going to meet Bo Duke (what can I say? John Schneider was 18 and the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen when I was four). I beat out all the boys for the lead of “Father Time” in the school musical in the first grade and was completely hooked.

When I hit the second grade and they started teaching us creative writing, I started writing profusely. I wrote my first novel in the fourth grade. It was 87 pages long, and I filled spiral notebook after spiral notebook with stories for the next eight years.

Upon graduating high school I won the English Key and the Music Key, and had been in choir all but a single year from kindergarten to 12^th grade (for some reason recess seemed more important than choir one year in middle school). My English teacher wanted to send me to Russia and my parents said “No” (stupid Cold War). I’d gone to NYSSMA for both piano and voice multiple times, and had traveled to the first international choral competition our school had entered, in Quebec (our group was too small to officially compete, but they were pleased to have us none-the-less and I was pleased to put a use to my five years of French classes). We got to sing Mozart and Bach in the center of a cathedral named after a saint (not being Catholic, I don’t recall which one). I was in Girl’s Ensemble, Show Choir, Select Choir, Hand Bell Choir (which I miss more than you know), and had sung pieces in Latin, French, German, and Spanish. My choir teacher created an award for me senior year, “Section Leader,” because “Choir Leader” was a popularity contest no alto would ever win, and she couldn’t let me graduate without officially recognizing I’d carried the alto section since the 7^th grade.

I got my BFA in Acting, (which many people would agree is a stupid investment, but two years out of school it was a completely worthless investment—I can’t even pursue an MFA to teach because the hours at any program worth its stuff are far too grueling, or require trapeze classes [I’m looking at you, National Theatre Conservatory]), and was starting to plump up my resume through community theatre around my native city before heading off somewhere big to make a career of it. And it wasn’t just my dream. My maternal grandmother gave me her sister’s mink stole, because I was the only one in the family who would ever have anywhere to wear it once I was a famous actress. She never understood why my parents taught me how to drive, as she was positive I would have a chauffeur to take me anywhere I needed to go. That was an actual conversation she had with my mother. She imagined I’d be Grace Kelly, Audrey Hepburn, or Vivien Leigh, and I’d always known she was right (though I wanted to be Meryl Streep). I was destined for greatness, mink stoles, and chauffeurs. Only I wasn’t. Rheumatism runs in my family, and my immune system was just waiting for something to set it off, which it did when I was barely an adult. I was very close to my mom’s parents, and if you want to talk about grieving, talk about knowing that you’re never going to live up to your grandma’s absolute, unwavering belief that you would be someone so magnificent chauffeurs would drive you everywhere. She died when I was 26. I don’t cry about not being able to breastfeed. I cry that my health couldn’t have just held out for two more stinking years so my grandma would have died knowing I was pursuing the life she imagined I would have, rather than knowing I had the same illness that crippled her mother. (That’s when I think about it, which I don’t often, because you can’t spend your life crying.)

In comparison to giving up goals I’d held since I was four years old (four), deciding to formula feed was a piece of cake. I did briefly entertain ridiculous thoughts of breastfeeding in the month and a half of my pregnancy where I didn’t want to puke all the time and my joints hadn’t yet figured out I was off my medication. That month and a half was the best I’d felt in a long, long time. I stupidly thought, “If I feel this good now, there’s no reason I can’t breastfeed!” Then my joints caught on to my clever scheme of using pregnancy hormones to keep them in check, and they rebelled with appropriate fury. It was laughable that I’d even entertained thoughts that I could stay off my medication to put myself into a sleep deprived breastfeeding stupor and expect to take care of a baby. My husband had to help me dress. I couldn’t find any position to sleep that didn’t cause horrible hip and shoulder pain. I spent night after night crying until two or three in the morning because I couldn’t lie down (or sit up, really) without being in agony. I went to work with my wrists and hands wrapped in athletic tape for support. Going up and down the stairs at work or at home was a nightmare because of my knees and ankles. I went to my baby shower with my right arm in a sling so I could keep my shoulder immobile and not be in excruciating pain (those aren’t humiliating pictures or anything). I lived day to day in paralyzing fear that my medication would no longer work when I went back on it. Outside of going to work, I was practically a hermit because I didn’t have the energy or feel well enough to even go to the grocery store to buy bread and milk. That was pretty much my pregnancy from week 22 until my daughter was born (a week late, thanks kid).

Yet somehow people didn’t understand why I wasn’t having the whole, “I am the Earth mother” experience. I did mention to my husband a couple of times how mind blowing it was that we made this whole new person who had never existed before, a concept that he just grasped last week. (He actually said while watching her in her bouncy seat, “We made a whole new person. She never existed before. That’s amazing!” Since I’m a good wife, I did not respond with, “Duh.”) But other than that I was pretty miserable and just counting the days for the whole thing to be over, which I’m sure made me look like a bad mommy to a lot of people that don’t know me well and weren’t aware of how sick I was, and I really didn’t care. Nineteen weeks of constant severe pain and little sleep—which makes the pain worse, which keeps you from sleeping, which makes the pain worse, which keeps you from sleeping ad infinitum—is a very, very long time when you’re carrying around 35 extra pounds that your joints do not like. The RA turned what was supposed to be a wonderful time in my life into months of anxiety and physical torture that I just wanted to end. But as terrible as my pregnancy was, I’ll still do it again—hopefully twice, I’ve always wanted three kids and am loathe to give up yet another dream to my disease—because my baby is proof that the end result is worth 19 weeks of agony and sleepless nights. Another pregnancy [or two] would simply not be possible if I wasn’t able to immediately get control of my RA post-partum because my medication is breastfeeding contraindicated and I bought into “breast is best.”

Ironically, my body understood that we weren’t breastfeeding. My very large breasts swelled for about three days after we brought our perfect baby girl home, and then started rapidly deflating like punctured balloons. I kept waiting for the pain from engorgement and to start leaking all over everything, but that never happened. It was actually quite shocking to be waiting for something that just never came. I kept expecting I’d have to hand my baby off to my mom (she stayed with us the first week, as she’d been a nervous wreck worrying about my health most of my pregnancy) or my husband the first time my breasts ached because I wasn’t feeding her, and my breasts would say, “P’shaw.” She’d cry, and I’d wait for my breasts to react by squirting out milk, forcing me to hand my baby off to my mom or husband, but my mammaries would just sit there going, “Meh.” I’d take a shower with my back to the water to avoid the warmth because so many people had said it was painful, and my breasts would declare, “Excuse me, you’ve had us in a sports bra for days. We’re sweaty and gross. Why aren’t you washing us???” It makes me wonder if I would have even been able to breastfeed, or if I would have ended up in the long dismissed line of women who don’t produce enough (or any) milk, riddled with guilt at having failed my daughter in her first days and weeks of life since “everyone can breastfeed,” and finding no one anywhere to tell me that just wasn’t true and formula wasn’t poison. (See, I really can imagine the guilt – that probably would have been me.)

My daughter also seemed to know from minute one that her mom had certain limitations, and she was just going to have to work with them. She hated the pre-made formula we had in the hospital (largely because the nipples on the bottles had medium sized holes and she was choking on the stuff, plus, have you seen it? It’s taupe, or ecru, or eggshell, but it’s definitely not milk colored), but as soon as we got home and put her on the powdered formula she took to it like a champ. She has never cared what kind of formula we were using or what kind of bottle we give her, so long as she’s being fed. We switched formulas after about a month and a half from our initial pick to something less clumpy, and she didn’t fuss at all. Her diaper wasn’t pleasant for about two days, but otherwise her tummy didn’t object and her taste buds didn’t care. She’s had no colic, nor is she particularly gassy, has no indication of food allergies, hasn’t spent a single day sick yet except for one rash that didn’t even give her a fever over 100, and just this week has become quite adamant that she gets “grown-up” food at dinnertime (oh, how we love our peas!). She started sleeping through the night two days after I went back to work and hasn’t stopped since. The most problematic issue she’s had with feeding is hiccups. She seems very aware that a diet of milk is temporary and for babies, and is determined to be a big girl as soon as she can manage it.

At just under 20 weeks old she’s exactly average in her height and weight, which I know is my “fault” (people with RA tend to have smaller babies), but her father and I don’t mind that she’s only average in her growth, because she’s smart, spunky, funny, and it’s really easy to buy her clothes. There’s no guessing whether or not 3-6 month old clothes will fit your four month old daughter when she’s right in the middle of the pack for her age. And, quite frankly, I wouldn’t have built up the arm strength yet to carry her around if she was a hulk in the 98^th percentile weighing in at 18 lbs. Her more gradual weight gain is allowing mommy time to recover the considerable muscle mass I’ve lost to RA, which is crucial since I take her everywhere with me. (I admit it—as physically awful as pregnancy was I got used to having her with me, and getting constantly kicked wherever I went, and I still haven’t adjusted to being separated from her.) She goes to all my theatre meetings, breakfast/brunch/lunch/coffee with my friends (she has many “aunts” besides my sister), script read-throughs, committees on which I sit, and she’s already appeared in her first play (which you bet I wrote for her, though I think I’ve created a monster; she knew the applause was for her and she LOVED it). She’ll be coming with me to rehearsals for a June production that I’m in, which a dear friend of mine (who is her honorary grandpa) is directing (he adores her, and the feeling is mutual). She is fascinated by everything she sees and does with mommy, has so much fun with her biological and extended theatre families, loves new faces and being in the middle of the adult action, recognizes cameras and coyly poses for pictures whenever she sees one, never cries unless she’s very hungry, extremely tired, or ends up naked on a public bathroom changing table after a diaper blow-out (who wouldn’t?), and is ridiculously well behaved. Every day my husband and I look at her in utter amazement, and wonder how we got so lucky in having such a completely magnificent child, who babbles and laughs constantly and loves getting kisses as much as we love kissing her. She’s my favorite person. It makes me think my grandma just may have been off a generation. She’s definitely getting Great Aunt Althea’s mink.

There is no way she would have the adventures with mommy she so clearly enjoys if I was incapable of picking up a 15 lb. baby because I put breastfeeding ahead of my own health. Not only wouldn’t I be able to care for my daughter without medication, I wouldn’t be able to care for myself, and I certainly wouldn’t be able to work (my job provides our family’s health insurance – that’s kind of a big deal). There are women with rheumatism who have chosen to breastfeed despite the risks, so I know that ultimately it was an option for me. I also know that across the board those women have ended up with far worse cases of the disease than before they became pregnant. Many women with my illness think any risk is worth it to breastfeed, and even if their pregnancy wasn’t great it won’t get that bad if they stay off meds a little longer, and even if it does they’ll make that sacrifice to keep their baby from the ills of formula. I suppose I’m fortunate to have 1) a rheumatologist who is very persistent in getting his patients to listen to common sense, and 2) a good friend with RA much worse than mine, which she started suffering from shortly after having her only child, while living in Brooklyn. She went without a diagnosis for five years and was on inadequate medication to control the symptoms in the meantime. Since they finally figured out it was rheumatoid arthrittis, she’s never been able to get it under control, and she’s been on every medication they’ve come out with to treat the disease. She’s about ten years my senior, can’t straighten her right arm, can’t close her hands around small objects, her fingers are starting to permanently bend outward, her knees are chronically swollen, and she’s had all her toe joints surgically fused (all that walking around the Big Apple for five years with a small child was a bad idea). I imagine she will eventually end up in a wheelchair, or having a heart attack from all the prednisone she’s on (that’s the only thing that works right now), and she’s not even 50. She is a real person I know with my disease, not a random stranger with a scary story, and for my baby’s sake I refuse to be her. Call me crazy, but I think it would be a lot worse for my daughter to be worried at ten years old that her mom, who has fused toes and arms that don’t straighten, might drop dead of a heart attack than it would be for her to maybe have more ear infections and a mom who can braid her hair an sew her Halloween costumes. Because I choose to bottle feed, my daughter is four months into a childhood filled with a loving family, stimulating activities, and a mommy who can change her, bathe her, feed her, play with her, sing to her, and carry her into the grocery store where total strangers will tell her how beautiful she is. I simply cannot fathom why I’m supposed to feel guilty about that.

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Viva la revolution. Fight the power with a hell no, we won’t go, and all that jazz. Send your FFF Friday submissions to: formulafeeders@gmail.com.