FFF Friday: What I Learned From Robert Burns About Parenting

It’s been a long, long time since I’ve posted an FFF Friday feature, but I wanted to share this great piece from Fearless Admin Erin, who has recently spearheaded the resurgence of the #ISupportYou Movement along with a few other amazing women, who I’ll be introducing you to in the next few weeks.

In Fearlessness,

Suzanne (The FFF)


Erin’s Story

When I think back to the first few months after the birth of my son and try to sum it up, the well-known words of Robert Burns’ poem ‘To a Mouse’ seem very apt:


‘The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men

Gang aft agley,

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

For promis’d joy!’


I could not have felt more prepared or for my baby’s birth if I was Eileithyia herself. I study reproduction and lactation biology for a living, and my two best pals are Senior Midwives. Even before I was ever even thinking of becoming pregnant, I was having conversations about childbirth and lactation on a daily basis. In a sense, I had been preparing for pregnancy and birth for years.  Then, when the two lines came up on the pregnancy test my quest for knowledge intensified. I read multiple books on pregnancy, childbirth and breastfeeding. I attended a baby fair. I even shelled out a ridiculous sum of money on an even more ridiculous hypnobirthing course, but that’s a different story (I’m still bitter). I knew a helluva lot about pregnancy, labour and lactation; from the physiology I had studied as a scientist, to potential obstetric emergencies and how a medical team would respond should they occur.

Source: Wikipedia

Robert Burns – famous poet, unknown parenting expert. Image Source: Wikipedia


Perhaps, in hindsight, this was part of the problem.


As The Bard prophesised, the best laid plans don’t guarantee success. My wee Mouse decided he was ready to meet the world a full 4 weeks before his due date, on day 1 of my maternity leave. As we left calmly for the hospital, having been advised to come in following my membranes rupturing, I waved goodbye to the next four weeks of doing nothing but relaxing in the July sunshine with a couple of bonkbusters.  That was particularly disappointing because at 8 months pregnant and resembling a pufferfish, that was the closest to bonking I was going to get.


In the five hours that followed I had a textbook birth, and mercifully quickly. I enjoyed the sweet, sweet relief of the gas and air after being admitted to the labour ward at 10cm dilated (or ‘fully’ as the midwives called it to my amusement) and my son was delivered by my friends, who were both on duty that day. It was bloody perfect.


Just after he was born, one of my friends told me she was going to ask my husband to cut the cord as my son was ‘a bit flat’. I knew that this meant he needed some stimulation to breathe, but didn’t panic. The room was an oasis of calm and as he was premature, the Neonatal Team were already in the room so they got to work right away. After some suction, he let out a lovely big yell and all was well. We enjoyed some skin-to-skin while the duty midwife helped him latch and he appeared to enjoy his first breastfeed.


After a glorious shower and the best tea and toast I have ever eaten, we were moved through to the postnatal ward. My friends went back to work and after a while my husband went home to shower, change and get me some supplies. I spent a lovely afternoon snuggling and staring in wonder at this wrinkled wee blue burrito I had been given and tried a few times to feed him. It looked like he was doing what he was supposed to but, having never done this before I wasn’t sure.  He was very sleepy and content so I wasn’t worried.


That evening, everything changed. During the routine tests, the Doc identified that our wee one’s blood glucose level was dangerously low and he was admitted to NICU. While there, he vomited up old blood and it was quickly established that he had no suck reflex. He was given a feeding tube and I was encouraged to hand express to stimulate my milk.


The first time I hand expressed with help from the midwife, I got 0.1ml colostrum. Yes, you read that right, 0.1ml. I sucked the droplets up into a 1ml syringe and it was brought to the NICU even though it was mostly empty. I continued to hand express through the night and got nothing. Not a drop.


In the NICU, I was given a hospital grade pump and started the routine of putting baby to the breast to try and stimulate both his suck reflex and my milk, feeding him with formula, and then pumping to try and get some breast milk for him.  This routine was to continue for the next three months.


After a week, he was discharged from hospital and we went home.  When the Public Health Nurse visited two days later he had lost weight, even though I had been feeding him the milk I had pumped, as well as formula. We were teetering very close to being readmitted which was a horrible thought and very scary.  Each feed was a struggle; try to nurse, cry (both of us usually), bottle feed, pump, repeat. It was relentless. The three of us were miserable.  It was clear I was producing very little milk. I kept records (hello, scientist remember!) and my maximum daily production, even when taking off-label drugs to boost supply – don’t try this at home, it’s extremely dangerous – was 150ml of milk. Five measly ounces. I was waking up in the middle of the night, even when I didn’t have to because my husband was doing the night feeds, to pump as little as 2ml of breast milk from each boob.  I attended a weekly breastfeeding group, staffed by a public Health Nurse and Lactation Consultant, where I was the only Mum to bring a bottle. I used to save the breast milk I had pumped for that bottle as the other ladies there were very scornful of formula. I look back now and can laugh at the ridiculousness of it all! What in the ever loving you-know-what was I thinking?


Through all of this, we were also dealing with an undiagnosed Cow Milk Protein Allergy (CMPA) which was horrendous. Our GP and hospital Paediatricians and Nurses palmed us off as paranoid parents. I was given the explanation that ‘babies cry’ and scoffed at. I felt like a failure. Like nobody was listening to me and I was going out of my mind with frustration. Frustration that my boobs weren’t doing what they were supposed to, even though I was doing everything the books told me to, and that they promised me would work. Frustration that my baby cried all day and nobody believed me that something was wrong. Frustration that I couldn’t get advice on formula feeding from my medical providers. Frustration that neither me, nor my husband had any idea what we should do. I was suffering from postpartum anxiety and not far from depression. That’s when a bit of internet searching led me to the Fearless Formula Feeder.


It’s no exaggeration to say that finding FFF changed my life. Immediately I felt listened to and validated. It felt like a massive weight was lifted off my shoulders. I cried. A lot. The amazing women in that group helped me and my family more than they will ever know; from practical advice on formula feeding that seemed so scarce elsewhere, to allowing me to process my initial feelings of failure and later my anger at having succumbed to the relentless societal pressure to exclusively breastfeed.


When and why had I become so fixated on this goal of exclusive breast feeding? I honestly have no idea. I think it’s so ingrained in our societal psyche that it just chips away at you without you really knowing. I also feel that a lot of it was fuelled by the information I was reading in books and websites from well-known (although sometimes self-appointed) breastfeeding experts. I was learning that if it hurts, you’re doing it wrong, my body was built to breastfeed and to just keep putting baby to the breast. I now see these statements as the gaslighting, naturalistic fallacy and useless advice that they are, respectively.  One surprising fountain of misinformation was the NHS. I mean, who questions the NHS? They’re a public health service, the NHS must be completely evidence based, right? Well, aye. If you don’t count the homeopathy and acupuncture…..




In the end, I came to my senses. With a little nudge in the right direction from my midwife pal who told me very unceremoniously to “f*ck up”! It sounds harsh, but it’s sound advice here in Scotland and I thanked her profusely!  Because she’s a midwife, it felt like I had official permission to stop torturing myself. I ditched that damned pump and never looked back. Had it not been a rented hospital pump I would’ve smashed the bastard to smithereens with a mallet! Around the same time, my wonderful cousin pulled some professional strings resulting in a diagnosis of CMPA and finally getting the right formula for our son. Our red faced screamin’ demon turned into a angel overnight.


Now, almost three years later, I am honoured to be part of the Admin Team at FFF and to have been trusted with the I Support You baton, which I have reignited with my fellow Admins and new BFF Stephy! I hope sharing my experiences with other women who are just starting out on the rocky road of motherhood will do for them what the kind words of other Fearless Formula Feeders did for me.


I have also used my sciencey skills to do some actual literature research about infant feeding, as opposed to internet googly research, and have been amazed, angered and incredulous at the sheer volume and audacity of misinformation out there. Let’s not even get started on the public moralisation of how a woman uses her breasts. As a scientist, I am still ashamed that I trusted what I read about breast and formula feeding without reviewing the original source of the claims. It’s the first bloody rule of science club; always read the original study! But, even scientists are busy and sometimes skip that bit. So, hopefully, by breaking down and summarising the data I can help people access accurate information in more palatable and bitesize chunks.  Go science!


I also wonder if perhaps my knowledge of the physiology of lactation gave me a false sense of security. Ultimately, no amount of reading or preparation can influence biology and thinking you can do will leave you, as Robert Burns said, with nothing but grief and pain for promised joy.


Burns was a passionate laddie, who wrote about his loves and influences so in that spirit, this story is my Ode to FFF; to the wonderful women who supported me and to the wonderful friends I have made along the way. Thank f*ck my boobs didn’t work!

FFF Friday: “Sometimes life takes an ‘unnatural’ turn…”

It’s been awhile since I posted. Life’s been rather insane lately; job changes, life changes, location changes (I’m moving from Los Angeles to Chicago in June)… and in all honesty, it’s been sort of nice checking out of this particular reality for a moment. Sometimes, seeing all the madness and meanness inherent in the parenting world is exhausting. 

But ultimately, I always come back to one thing: to me, this stuff is frustrating and tiring. To a mom in the thick of it, this stuff is utter HELL. As we all move on, and our kids get older and new issues arise, it’s too easy to forget that other women are still suffering. That doesn’t mean we can’t let the anger and pain go – because after all, that’s the goal – but that we should stay protective of the next generation of mothers, too. 

That’s why I love Megan’s story. She has obviously processed her experience; she can speak about it with insight and eloquence, as well as some healthy distance. But she’s still telling her story. She’s still speaking up about the lessons she learned, hoping that others can benefit from finding their own kernel of truth in her account.

Please…keep talking. Even when I’m sloppy about posting these every week… find somewhere to speak up. Your stories matter. You matter.

Happy Friday, fearless ones,



Megan’s Story: “Not Natural”

Being “all natural” is the latest catch phrase in motherhood, eating, and living. Don’t get me wrong; it sounds good and healthy and can be a worthy pursuit, but sometimes life takes an unnatural turn.

My road to motherhood has been anything but natural. It started marked by grief. We could never naturally conceive. Weeks of hormone injections, ultrasounds, and doctors visits all culminated in a cold sterile room with my husband sitting by my side for implantation. This is about as far from natural as baby making can be. Upon leaving, we were given a picture of two eight-celled embryos, our babies. It was surreal. We snapped a picture together. I grieved the lack of intimacy required but rejoiced we had made it so far.

I stared at those babies, prayed for those babies, hoped beyond hope for those babies to live, and one day at 7 am in my office bathroom I saw something I had never seen: two lines. Our first ultrasound showed one small heartbeat, and we were overjoyed. All the unnatural lead the way to a very real baby, and my journey to natural could continue despite the unnatural conception.

Fast-forward 41 weeks and 4 days, after a terribly long and generally uncomfortable pregnancy (I wasn’t one of those infertility patients who was so grateful it made me not complain—to my shame). I found myself at a birthing center, unable to physically stop the forces of my body from bringing this baby into the world. It was the most wonderfully horrible natural experience of my life, and suddenly my husband and I welcomed our son, Phineas Alexander, into the world. An unexpected gift. We were relieved, we were tired, we were happy.

I assumed I would breastfeed—it’s natural, after all—and he was on my chest immediately. By day three I realized something was wrong; he refused to latch all night one night. On day four, the lactation consultant stopped by and suggested he was tongue-tied. I had the first appointment I could with a doctor to correct his tongue so he could latch correctly. A Monday appointment guaranteed a weekend for significant damage to a normally chapping experience. A still lazy lower lip, even after correction, caused blood-mixed milk to spill from my always hungry baby’s mouth.

The natural way was killing me. I couldn’t wear clothing, I couldn’t snuggle my baby close, and I couldn’t hug my husband. Instead of feeling joy to see my baby awake, I would feel dread.

One day three weeks later, after about as much support as someone could hope for, I sat sobbing in my midwife’s office. She took one look at the situation and told me what my husband had already made clear: something had to change. “This is not normal chapping, these are the worst nipples I’ve seen in 30 years.” She sent me home with strict instruction to bottle feed my precious baby every two hours, as much as he would eat. I was to pump to keep up supply, and her words stuck with me as we left: “Maybe he’ll go back to the breast, after you heal.”


Maybe. It took two and a half weeks for me to heal to a point where I could tolerate clothing. While Finn was thriving, I was once again grieving the loss of the expected—the natural. We tried going back, correcting the latch, re-teaching the suck, and this resulted in a gaping hole and the return of the blood-mixed milk. And the pump, oh the pump, was a leash that I hated, one that caused it’s own pain.  One night in the kitchen my husband was trying to comfort me, “we didn’t go through all we did to have a baby just to breastfeed. I want you to enjoy him.” I wept. I didn’t enjoy him and he might be my only.

At six weeks, I made the decision to wean him and stopped pumping. I became a formula-feeding mom. I was overjoyed. We are all healthy, the hourly tears have stopped, the baby is strong, and mom can snuggle. We tried “hard enough”, we tried every single thing any lactation consultant, the ENT doctor, and my midwife suggested. Even now with a nearly walking (!) 8 month old, people will casually ask me “Did you try…?” and it takes all that is within me to maintain composure and simply nod yes.

This journey has softened me; it’s given me compassion for those living the unexpected and trying to make the best decision in the moment; one they may second guess a million times. So I proudly tell our story in the natural birth lovin’ circles while mixing up his formula. I am thankful for the “unnatural”; without it my son would not exist and without it he would not have a full belly.

We live in an imperfect world, and what a gift it is that there is unnatural help along the way.

FFF Friday: “I’m grateful to the midwives who stepped out of line with hospital policies to connect with what was really going on…”

Last month, I received a PM from a woman named Sarah. She wrote: 

“It is hard to describe how depressed and lost one feels when someone takes it upon themselves to remind you of how exclusive breastfeeding halves the risk of SIDS, when they know you will be formula feeding. And when you tell them you don’t have a choice they just keep reiterating. As though you are choosing to kill your baby willfully and wantonly. And you start to doubt if you should even be a mother at all if you can’t breastfeed exclusively. It’s a lonely place.”

My heart broke for her. She was expecting her baby in the next few weeks, and I hoped against hope that when he or she arrived, all this self-doubt would wash away. 

And then, yesterday, she sent another message. She agreed to let me share it as an FFF Friday of sorts, even though that wasn’t her intent. I share this not to scare anyone who is currently expecting, because when Baby Friendly is done right, it can be a really positive experience. I share this to show that when Baby Friendly is done wrong, it’s done very wrong, and we can’t allow the good to overshadow the bad. It doesn’t matter that 20 women have a good experience if 5 are put through this kind of hell, because this kind of hell is inexcusable. End of story. And if anyone thinks what Sarah went through is acceptable, I doubt their opinions are malleable or their empathy is intact, so there’s no real reason to debate about it. 

Happy Friday, fearless ones. 


** Please note – the names of everyone involved in this story have been changed, and the author refers to her baby as “they” rather than her or him to protect the child’s identity as well. Just so you don’t think she had twins! : ) ** 


Sarah’s Story

My baby, R, was two weeks old at 9.31pm two nights ago. Yesterday I lay next to them on our bed, watching them sleep and kissing their teeny tiny face, their squishy belly, their downy head and relishing them. I am still getting to know them, and our bond is still slowly growing as each day passes. Formula is largely responsible for being able to connect with them like this.


I would like to tell you about my experience so far of motherhood and feeding my baby while it remains fresh in my mind, because formula is at the centre of my story; formula and my breasts, and the both truly negligent and outstanding care I received – all within the same hospital.


There’s background to how feeding and by association, attachment, has gone down for me. I have a difficult history around fertility and mental health. I had two traumatic miscarriages before this baby was conceived, and their conception happened after painful, invasive fertility testing. A lot of emotions rode on the creation of their new life, and my pregnancy with them felt heavy every day with fear of loss. I found it difficult to connect with them as they grew inside me, and sought counselling to help me do so.


I also have mental health issues that I take daily medication to treat; medication that, while it does an excellent job at keeping me functional and well, passes into breast-milk, with unknown long term consequences for breastfed babies (not enough studies have been done, and even short term studies are limited in number and scope). Women who take these medications are generally advised to limit breastfeeding or use formula, though that information varies depending on who you talk to. The idea that breast-milk is the elixir of life weighs heavily in the “risk vs benefit” equation which means I’ve been told by some doctors that breastfeeding would be “worth it”.


After months of discussion with my husband (who has always maintained that breastfeeding or using formula was ultimately an issue of bodily autonomy and thus, my choice – I highly recommend being married to a feminist) I decided I wanted to breastfeed a little bit after our baby was born, but mostly use formula and let my supply dwindle naturally. This was for two reasons: so I could get enough rest to mitigate the likelihood of developing post natal depression and post puerperal psychosis, which I was in a high risk category for, and to minimise how much exposure our baby was getting to my medications.


The circus around advocating for this feeding plan began well before I gave birth. I raised it with one of the midwives handling my antenatal care and she refused to tick the “not breastfeeding” box on my antenatal card, insisting I speak to the lactation consultant. I left the appointment angry and disheartened at being patted on the head in this way. However, this LC was wonderful; she listened to my concerns, and said she would work with me to teach me how to bottle feed, and how to express colostrum which I was still keen to give our baby – provided I get advice saying it was safe to do so (I did). I spoke to a leading expert who recommended I breastfeed more than I was comfortable with (because breast is best, of course) and met with the LC again, who wrote a plan that included pumping – which I’d also never wanted to do -and demand feeding during the day, using formula at night to assist sleep. This was the start of the parade of conflicting, confusing and ultimately destabilising advice around feeding that marked the next few months.


My labour with R was long, intense and difficult. I didn’t eat or sleep for three days and was in labour for around 30 hours, with my waters breaking, my labour stalling and ultimately being induced with syntocin when everything stood still. By the time my little one was lifted onto my chest – a purple, heavy, wet and warm tiny human still attached to me by our shared cord that pulsed with lifegiving blood – I was completely exhausted. But they were here, finally, after so much fear that we’d never meet. During that first hour of skin to skin, they had their first breastfeed. Looking into their face in that moment I felt such a rush of love and contentment that I’ve never experienced before and don’t think anything will ever rival again.


I wish I could say my stay in hospital ended on such a high note; unfortunately it didn’t. I was transferred to the post natal ward for a long stay, with my husband staying on the fold-out beside my bed and R in a tiny cot on wheels at the end of my bed. Nobody in those first couple of days seemed to put two-and-two together and note my mental health history, detailed in my file, and the fact that I hadn’t slept at all in days. I was, as we say in Australia, completely knackered – but I’d anticipated this happening, having brought in seven syringes of precious colostrum I’d expressed ante-natally for my husband to drip feed R, and thinking we could use formula as well. Right? Wrong.


Our precious syringes of colostrum were (apparently accidentally) defrosted all at once. What was supposed to last days had now to be used up in the next 12-24 hours, which scuttled our plan. Then, the first nurse I asked to make up a bottle of formula so I could get some sleep flatly refused. I didn’t know how to reply. She said she’d only give the remaining expressed colostrum I’d brought and when I expressed concern that this wouldn’t be enough to feed our baby she said I’d just have to wake up and express more and the baby would have to “make do with a snack” and I’d have to have a shorter sleep. Beyond tired, I agreed and walked back to my room wondering what had happened. Hadn’t they read the lactation plan our LC had written?


Over the next few days I was awake every few hours, wildly expressing, and trying to latch a hungry baby on to nipples that increasingly felt razor-shredded with shaking anxious hands. I had loved that first breastfeed and had such confidence in our plan, but now I was doubting myself, and hating breastfeeding on demand. Eventually we found a midwife that would make us up a bottle of formula but I now felt I was doing the wrong thing by giving R a bottle. A different LC visited and heavily encouraged breast-feeding even though I kept mentioning the lack of longitudinal safety data surrounding my medications. My sleep debt was growing and so was my despair at our plan going out the window.


On day three the baby blues hit, compounded by sleep deprivation, and I felt my attachment with R withering away. I didn’t want to touch them or look at them or tend to them because every cuddle had now become about providing food – and it hurt, and I struggled with the latch, and I was so so worried about how much of my medication was coming through in my milk. Expressing so often encouraged my milk to come in, big time, and soon I was painfully engorged and living with ice packs down my bra to deal with the excruciating sensations. I was not coping.


Day four came and I was officially a mess. The tipping point came when I sat on the bed watching my husband have a long, warm, stress-free cuddle with our baby while I was hooked up to the pump feeling like I was going to pass out from lack of sleep. I began to cry in that ugly-cry way you do when you feel like you’ve hit bottom. My husband began to cry too. And this is where one heroic midwife entered the picture.


Jill* walked in at that exact moment to do some observations, and seeing our faces and our tears, nestled herself into the armchair by the window and asked “what’s happening?” I explained how tired I was, how this was never our plan, how much I hated pumping, and how I felt I was losing my attachment with my baby and it scared me. She listened as I spilled forth my distress in an angry rush, and paused, considering my words carefully and choosing her own just as carefully. This after all was a Baby Friendly Hospital and she was supposed to recommend breastfeeding.


She told me then the following: breastfeeding is not motherhood. Motherhood is about so much more than how we feed our babies.


She then went on to recommend I stop breastfeeding or dial it right back, and switch to formula. She said it was time to take the stress out of feeding and that I really, really needed to get some sleep ASAP. She also said she was going to call one of the obstetric doctors and someone from the psych team to come and talk to me because she was worried about how things were going mental health wise for me.


The doctor came first after being called and brief on the situation, and there are no words to describe how negligent and inadequate she was in how she handled her care of me. When she walked in I was curled up under the covers, having cried continuously for hours and still going.


She tried to get my husband to leave the room (which by instinct I didn’t allow – and am so glad I didn’t). He sat close by, holding R and listening. She then launched into a rehearsed sounding spiel about why breastfeeding was best for babies and why formula was detrimental. I felt myself inwardly curl away from her – she was not here to help, it was very clear. I said I needed sleep, I was not coping and she replied in a patronising tone “you do know that someone needs to feed the baby every four hours, whether you’re breastfeeding or using formula, don’t you?”


What a ridiculous, insulting question – as if I had intended to starve my baby? As if I didn’t have a perfectly capable partner sitting beside me, also quite able to hold a bottle and feed our child? Clearly, in her view, feeding was entirely the responsibility of mothers. I was pretty pissed off at that point, which only intensified when she turned to my husband and said “and how do you feel about your wife stopping breastfeeding?” My husband arched his eyebrows so high I thought they would pop off the top of his forehead, and replied bluntly “I feel like it’s her choice, not mine.” She then read some compulsory questions in a bored tone off a piece of paper like “have you had any thoughts of harming yourself or your baby?” and then when she’d ticked all her boxes, she left. I was in even worse shape, now full of rage.


Then someone visited me from the psych team. He was wonderful. He suggested that formula was the best, safest option at this point and he pieced the last week together for me. The long labour. The three days with no sleep or food. The difficulty breastfeeding, the stress from pumping, the concerns about medication, the continuing lack of rest…as well as worries about our baby being jaundiced and having some investigations on a sacral dimple over their lower spine (all of which turned out fine). With all of this laid out, he said it was understandable that I wasn’t coping.


He and our midwife Jill suggested that we send our baby to the Special Care Nursery overnight so we could both “reset” ourselves with a full night of sleep. We were both pretty horrified by the suggestion that we have our babe removed from our care so young…and I felt like a failure for things having gotten this far. I didn’t want to agree to this. We both initially said no. Eventually, after a lot of discussion, we agreed – knowing that if we didn’t, things would probably get worse.


Leaving my baby in the nursery that night with the very kind, gentle nurses who would attend to R while we were apart was easily the hardest thing I’ve ever done. After nine months of fearing I would lose them, of thinking miscarriage or stillbirth would rip us apart, it had turned out that my mental health (or so it felt in that moment) was what had done it. I sat clinging to R before walking away, unable to look at or speak to the nurses with fat hot tears rolling down my face. How had we gotten here? Once we were back in my room I was given two sleeping tablets to calm me down and sent to bed to sleep. We picked R up at 6am the next morning, practically sprinting back to the nursery.


Now with some sleep under my belt, I was able to function again and advocate properly for myself. Everything looked better and I could think clearly for the first time in about a week. I knew then that I wasn’t going crazy; this wasn’t my fault. It was about the feeding and the sleep, it wasn’t about me.


After that everything improved. Another wonderful midwife – Harriet – took to the task of teaching us to bottle feed properly, showing us tips and tricks to do it well. We researched, we read, we tried to learn what we needed to know to move things forward and away from the dark place we’d been in as a family and to right what had felt like a sinking ship. Jill had barred the useless second LC from visiting again and unhelpful people were kept away. My fantastic parents wholeheartedly backed our decisions, and gave us lots of pep talks.


We’ve been at home for two weeks now. We are formula feeding 95% of the time, but I sometimes breastfeed because I want to, for a burst of ten minutes a day, once or twice a day. I lay down on the bed to do it, as it makes for an easier latch. I stop when I get frustrated, because that time is precious and intimate and I do not want it to be marred by anxiety. Such tiny periods of time also limit any effects from my medication and mean my supply is slowly fading away, and I’m getting my head around that. I know it’ll stop eventually, and I’ll find a way to be ok with it. I’m working on my bottle feeding technique, and using that time for attachment, looking into their eyes, kissing them, chatting to them. Just getting to know each other.


Reflecting now on the turbulence of that first five days, and how it nearly wrecked me, I am overwhelmed with both anger at some of the care I received around feeding, and gratitude for the midwives who stepped out of line with hospital policies to connect with what was really going on, and helped me. There’s a Carl Jung quote which feels so apt here – “Learn your theories well, but put them aside when you touch the miracle of a living person.”


If only more health care providers could set aside their theories when they touch each mother’s nuanced, lived experience, so many more women would be flourishing as mothers rather than falling apart. Hell, if they even just read the file, that would be a start. As it is, I’m going really well now, and repairing the hurts my bond with my child sustained in that first five days. It could have been very different for me if it hadn’t been for Jill though; and this is what is core to my story.


Every midwife, every doctor, every LC, should be like Jill. Promoting feeding that sustains and nourishes the child, the mother, and the bond between them – not forcing both of them into a slow-motion train-wreck neither may survive. Thank goodness for the rebels. Maybe one day they’ll be the norm.


Share your story, Email me at formulafeeders@gmail.com


FFF Friday: “We will bond no matter how she is fed…”

Earlier in the week, I shared an expert’s perspective on the emotional and mental health impact of formula feeding. Megan’s story feels like the perfect corollary to the insight offered in that post; a raw, brave account of mental illness and how this illness influenced a truly informed decision not to breastfeed. 

It is so incredibly humbling to get stories like the one below. The fact that you trust me and this space enough to share them here is not taken lightly… and while I hate that any of you even have to write these heartbreaking accounts, I can’t help but celebrate your resilience and willingness to speak your truths in the hopes of helping others feel less alone. 

So thanks, Megan. And thanks to all of you who share and read and participate – you are all amazing.

Happy Friday, fearless ones,



Megan’s Story

During the summer of 2014, I spent two months separated from my husband.  I took our 4 kids, packed up and went to another state to stay with my parents.  Things were pretty tough.  Traumatic would put it mildly.  But there’s a happy ending.  We both desperately wanted our marriage to succeed.  With blood, sweat and tears on both sides, we reached a really good place by the end of the summer – a fantastic place, even!  That fall, reunited both physically and emotionally, we finally made significant progress in so many areas of our lives that we had been struggling to move forward with over the decade of our marriage.  We remodeled our house (which we bought bank owned and in need of repair).  We instituted family rituals and routines that we had always wanted in place, but never quite could manage because we often couldn’t be in the same room with each other – hurt feelings make it hard to pretend that everything is fine.  But mostly, we both felt very strongly that there was another child ready to come to our family.  It was a very exciting, exhilarating time.  And a very anxious time.  Things were still so new.  We had just demolished the foundation our entire lives had been built upon for the last 11 years, and our new foundation was yet to be truly tested.  We were about to do just that – and how.


The day after my birthday in September, I started what would be my last menstrual cycle.  We were so thrilled!  This baby was figuratively and literally a symbol of our renewed and healing relationship.  Hope for the future of our family.  Evidence and a symbol of just how far we had come, of the new life we had brought to our union.  I was basking in the glow of being pregnant again.


Eventually, however, elation began to give way to a gradual sinking… At first I just thought it was exhaustion from first trimester blahs’.  But as the days began to grow shorter, and colder, we began to see that this was depression.  Depression wasn’t something foreign to me.  I had struggled with major postpartum depression with 3 of my 4 babies, with depression in-between postpartum periods as well.  I had a history of childhood sexual abuse, though, so I mostly attributed my depressive episodes with my work to resolve the effects of that abuse.  I kept figuring “once I get past this issue, I’ll be able to move on with a normal mood”.  Grieving and untangling trauma can be very difficult, and often looks like depression.  As we neared December, however, I hit a new low, even for me.  I went from being just fine and functional in the morning, to being so low that afternoon that I began thinking not just suicidal thoughts, but even thinking that my children would be better off being spared the agony of living with such a mother.  I thought to myself, “I can see how those mothers end up drowning their children in the bathtub.  I can see how that would be merciful”.  Then I wondered, as I brought up the image of the logistics in my mind, how you would drown multiple children, and what would you do with the bodies?  If you did them one at a time, they would freak at seeing the bodies of their siblings…..”  OH MY GOD!!  Did I really just think that???  Right as I thought that, the very clear phrase came into my mind “I need medication”.  That snapped me out of it, and gave me a surge of energy and forward momentum to act on a solution.


I reached out to my husband.  I told him he needed to come home.  I was shaken, I was ashamed, I was afraid.  What was happening?  That was NOT like me.  What was going on?  I couldn’t wrap my brain around it, but I knew that this couldn’t happen again, something had to change!  Dealing with things in psychotherapy wasn’t addressing this issue.  What else would??  Could medication really help?



Near the end of the two months I’d spent at my parents, when things began to calm down and my husband and I had a solid timeframe and plan for our reunification and going back home, my mother sat me down and had a talk with me.  That summer she was finishing up her rigorous PhD program in psychology.  She later said she was too close to the situation to be able to see it clearly for a time, but by the end of the summer, she finally had drawn a few conclusions that put the pieces together.  She read me the DSM-V definition of Bipolar I.  I was crushed.  I fit the description to a t.  I didn’t want to believe it.  Bipolar meant something was wrong with me, and I didn’t want to own that.  That was shameful.  And it meant I had a part in the separation, and I wasn’t the innocent victim.  I needed to be the innocent victim, and I needed him to be the perfect bad guy.


Fast forward again to that dismal and garish December.  At this point, my mother’s conversation came back to me in vivid detail.  Maybe she was right!!  A sense of relief washed over me.  This wasn’t my fault!!  I can do something about this that would actually work!  Exercise wasn’t cutting it, praying and reading my scriptures diligently wasn’t cutting it, having a close connection with my husband wasn’t cutting it, having good friends wasn’t cutting it… But if this is bipolar and not just me not “trying hard enough”, then I could see a light at the end of the tunnel.


So, at 20 weeks pregnant with my 5th child, I was officially diagnosed with bipolar I disorder, and began taking lamotrigine.  It pulled me out of my depression!  What elation, what relief!  Of course, I obsessively looked up and read every scientific study I could get my hands on, and I was very worried about the effects on my baby, but most studies concluded that after the 1st trimester, baby was at relatively low risk.  Then I began to notice a ramping up of anxiety.  It started gradually, but I began to notice feeling really great, and very productive, but increasingly I began heading toward fully anxious, crawling out of my skin feelings.  And then I realized, 3 weeks in a row, getting to the point where I was becoming paranoid again.  That was enough.  I went back in to my doctor and pretty much insisted he start me on lithium.  I was 32 weeks pregnant.  It helped!  I was so excited, and the case studies on lithium said that as long as baby didn’t have any troubles eliminating or getting dehydrated, that as far as they could tell, lithium didn’t have any measurable side effects.  Yes, they knew it was transferred to baby in breastmilk, but didn’t really see consistent harmful effects.  I felt comfortable with those odds.


Then came the day, at 37.5 weeks, when I began to wonder how the hormones of breastfeeding would impact me postpartum.  My biggest fear was having a major mood set back after birth, and for good reason.  I had a very clear history of it.  And, the medications were still helping, but I wasn’t actually feeling rock solid stable yet.  I still was having some ups and downs, just not so extreme.  All the research said that breastfeeding was protective against PPD, but nothing was said about bipolar.  So I asked my psychiatrist and my OB what their clinical experiences were.  They both said that almost universally, when moms are having postpartum mood issues, they fairly immediately improved after ceasing to breastfeed.  Clinical experience has to account for something, doesn’t it?


I think the biggest reason I could see their point and trust it was that not even a week before these discussions, I had about 4 hours of “warmup” labor, and it put me into a manic place, followed a few days later by a depressive place.  We increased the dosage of both my mood stabilizers, and that noticeably helped.  So when both my providers agreed with each other about stability and breastfeeding in my situation, I whole heartedly could see their point of view.  If I wasn’t even mood stable before birth, what would be the after birth chances when things really got screwy with my hormones?  It also occurred to me that my psychotic episode the summer before happened while I was still breastfeeding my one year old.  They were right.  Breastfeeding was not the option for me if my main goal was emotional stability.  I was crushed.  And peaceful.  And then obsessive about ordering just the right bottle feeding supplies.  And then crushed.  And then peaceful.  And then obsessive about looking up research to tell me that my doctors were wrong and I could actually breastfeed and I would be able to stay mood stable at the same time….


And then my shipment of bottles, pacifiers and all things formula feeding came in.  I could barely look at the unopened amazon box for a few hours.  I placed it on my couch where it could torment me every time I passed it.  Then I’d have a good cry, and busy myself with something to forget it.  Then I finally screwed up enough courage to open the shipping box.  Then I had a good cry, but left all the bottles and things in their original packaging – I wasn’t really going to use these, was I???  Eventually, after enough tears and grumpiness, I decided I would stop thinking about it.  I invited my older daughters to help me open them.  They were thrilled.  They wanted to touch everything, suck on everything (of course) and figure out how everything worked. Bottles and pacifiers are definitely a novelty in our home.  To this point, the only bottles I had ever owned always lived safely covered in thick dust in the cabinet above the fridge (you know, the useless one you can never get in and out of because it’s too high and you always have stuff on top of your fridge in front of it?).  Boy is this a change.  It did comfort me that the small size bottles, when I held them up and imagined feeding my baby from them, felt very close…. Like maybe I could bring baby really close to me like if I was breastfeeding.  Bottles and pacifiers safely in the dishwasher and ready to be sanitized, I needed a good cry again.


And why was I crying?  I had hope for stability.  I was making choices that would not only benefit my new baby, but all my children and my marriage too.  I was making a choice to skip the living hell that is the ups and downs of bipolar – a choice that would afford me the chance to be in the world of people, living in the moment and enjoying that living.  Bipolar depression is completely exhausting and isolating, and bipolar mania is terrifying and crazy making because you can’t trust your gut or calm down enough to take in the moment.  Why would I want that?  Wouldn’t I want the best thing for everyone I love, including myself?


That night, my husband held me while great sobs wracked my frame.  I didn’t want to grieve.  I didn’t want to have to grieve.  I didn’t want to need to grieve.  I wanted to just treat this as a matter of fact, and then move on.  Grieving is scary – what if I get going and can’t stop – what if it’s not actually grief but just that ugly old depression again?  I felt broken, helpless, like a failure… Why did I have to be bipolar?  Why couldn’t I be stable?  Why did I need medications?  Why weren’t they working better yet?  Where was the line between a normal emotional response and a bipolar swing?  In truth, I don’t think they can really be distinguished, after a point.  The feelings are there either way.  The options are learn to sit with it in a way that isn’t destructive, or adjust medications.  After my intense crying session, I felt better.  That was a good sign that this was grief!  But grief usually comes in waves. I woke up the next morning after nightmares about having to bottle feed next to my breastfeeding friends.  I felt so surreal, to be bottle feeding – and horrifying.  I got up, sad and even angry.  Angry that this is my situation.  Angry at myself, angry that this is just part of living and having a body.  I’m grateful for my body and the children I have been able to conceive and give birth to, and the four I was able to breastfeed, even if it was a great struggle for my mental health in every postpartum period.  I’m grateful for this baby too – this little miracle child of the seaming back together of my marriage that was hanging by a thread only just one year ago.  And I feel raw.  I don’t want one more thing put on my plate that I don’t feel I have the capacity to do and do well.  I don’t want to see anyone pregnant and brimming with excitement about breastfeeding.  I don’t want to imagine them taking their brand new baby onto their chest, and having their baby root and suckle.  I don’t want to imagine that and a hundred other images I have in my head from my own babies.  I just want to fall down face first and sob until I have no strength left to sob.   And I want to not have to sob, to be able to either breastfeed, or get over it.


So why is it so emotional?  Why can’t I just “get over it”?  I never realized how much of my self worth was wrapped up in my ability to breastfeed, and ultimately in my capacity for perfection.  Good mothers feed their babies, but the best mothers know that “breast is best” right?  Good mothers know that emotional stability and consistency are keys to raising well-adjusted children, but the best mothers are just born with that natural ability.  Good mothers often sacrifice and put their children first, but the best mothers never have needs of their own and can endlessly give whatever their children require without resentment or burnout.  Wow.  What a load of distorted thoughts!!!  Does any of this sound familiar to you?


The truth is – the best mothers recognize their limitations, and plan for them.  The best mothers accept reality, get help, surround themselves with supportive people, and don’t try to brute force themselves into good mental health through sheer force of will and determination.  The best mothers recognize that breastfeeding, while extremely biologically engineered to create bonding, is not the same as bonding.  It’s a tool.  Bonding is a choice – one that continues through the child’s entire life span, and has many stages and phases.  You can’t breastfeed your teenager back into a close relationship with you if you haven’t stayed close through his earlier childhood and tween years…..  The best mothers understand that our imperfections are gifts to ourselves and our children.  Seeing that we aren’t perfectly put together all the time lets them know that it’s okay that they aren’t perfectly put together all the time either.  It gifts us all a sense of “we’re in this together – I’m ok, you’re ok”.  Which brings the sweetest sense of safety, connection and reassurance I’ve ever known.


The best mothers know that when we love ourselves, warts and all, we are providing the greatest example for our children we possibly can.  An example of just showing up, being transparent, and having self-compassion and self-kindness.


And that’s why my bottles are currently sitting in my dishwasher sanitized and ready to be packed into my hospital bag.  That’s why I have histamines and decongestants ready to go to dry up my milk supply.  That’s why I have a list of friends and family who have agreed to help support me after birth.  That’s why I’m still taking my mood stabilizers.  That’s why I’m going to finish writing this, and then go enjoy the last precious days of being a family of only 6, before our world changes to welcome our new one.  She’s precious no matter my weaknesses, and we will bond no matter how she is fed, because I will be emotionally stable enough to enjoy her.


Want to share your story? Email me at formulafeeders@gmail.com.

FFF Friday: “Please don’t ask.”

Very often, reading your FFF Friday submissions, I think I could seriously just retire from doing this and leave your stories up here as an archive, and it would be just as effective. Because your stories are so powerful, that they speak for themselves – and all the rest of it just becomes unnecessary background noise.

Fawn’s story, below, is a perfect example of what I’m talking about. It pretty much sums up everything I’ve tried to say in the past 7 years, in a much more concise and artful way. So.. here you go. One of the best diatribes ever written on this issue, in my opinion.

Happy Friday, fearless ones,



Fawn’s Story 

Two weeks ago, I was foolishly optimistic enough to believe I wouldn’t have reason or need to write this.  It’s frustrating to find out that my optimism was misguided naiveté.

I am a mom of four.  I have a brilliant six year old son, a hilarious four year old son, and a beautiful pair of newborn identical twin daughters.  After each birth (and frequently leading up to them), I have been surprised by the number of people who feel the need to ask about our feeding situation.  I’ve been here before; I’m not sure why I thought maybe people wouldn’t ask this time around.  But they do.  And it catches me off guard every time.

So it’s been on my mind lately.  And do you know what my well-considered answer is?  My answer is, “Why do you need to know?”

If you are not my doctor, or my babies’ doctor, why do you need to know?  Are you asking because you’re looking for an ally for whichever side of this ridiculous battle you’re on?  Are you asking out of concern for my babies?  Are you asking, because you’re about to offer to buy some formula?  If it’s that last one, ask away, please, and thank you for the help… if it’s for another reason, please reconsider asking.

If you’re asking because you imagine there’s some sort of right vs. wrong, and you need to know which side I’m on, please don’t ask.  I have more important things to worry about than how other people feed their children.  I trust them to make the best choices for their families, just like I do my best to make the best choices for my own family.quotescover-JPG-94

If you’re asking out of concern for the health of my babies, please don’t ask.  Do you really think you’re more concerned about my children’s wellbeing than I am?  Do you think you know more than our doctors or I do, or that I’m incapable of doing the same research you’re capable of?  Please understand that I am a relatively intelligent person with very reliable reading skills.  I have the same access to the internet that you do, and I have had plenty of time to scour PubMed and other sources for actual scientific research. Don’t insult my intelligence or my love for my children by implying that you care more for them than I do.

If you ask about our feeding situation, and I do let you know that yes, we use formula, please don’t try to convince me otherwise.  See the above paragraph, please.  That should suffice.  But if it doesn’t…

Do you want me to describe for you, in detail, what it’s like to watch your firstborn son cry nonstop for days, until he’s exhausted, and unable to even wake up to eat? How it feels to watch him slowly wither and grow weaker as his tiny little body gets even smaller and lighter?  And then, what it’s like to be nursing, and pumping, constantly around the clock, under the watchful supervision of the lactation consultant.  She’d cheered his beautiful latch even in the hospital!  How, in exhaustion, at twelve days old, we went into her office to weigh him before and after, to discover he was getting almost nothing to eat.  Well, how often did I feel let-down?  How long had I experienced engorgement? I wasn’t sure, perhaps because neither of those things ever really happened.  At this point, our six-pound, twelve-ounce newborn had lost nearly a pound.  There in her office, he turned blue from being so thin and pale, and she scooped him up, grabbed me by the hand, and rushed us downstairs to the emergency room.  I can tell you about how tragically sad it is to watch an ER doctor hold your tiny baby down while they do their best to draw blood from his miniature arm.  Is this what you want to hear, when you ask me why we’re using formula?  I pumped for him for six weeks.  It was six weeks of tears, sorrow, and feeling like a failure, as I sat for an hour at a time to wind up with maybe an ounce of “liquid gold” to give my baby, while other people were getting to actually spend time with him and enjoy him.  I would give anything to go back and have the chance to really enjoy him during that time too.  To offer him a mama that is present and happy.   But at least he got the important part of me.  Right?
Have you seen the sunken eyes and cheeks of a baby that’s slowly being starved?

Should I then go on to tell you how I researched while expecting my second-born son?  How I was determined to get it right this time, this thing that supposedly everyone can do, if they just try hard enough?  I was not a new mom; I knew better than to assume breastfeeding would just happen naturally.  It took work.  I spent months reading everything I could about nursing positions, latches, tongue ties, proper diets.  I would set myself and my baby up for success.  I looked forward to the lactation consultants visiting us in the hospital; I had a number on hand for another IBCLC in case we needed her later.

We needed her later.

Did you know that different babies respond differently to intense, long-term hunger?  This baby didn’t cry.  Or sleep.  He attempted to nurse, literally, around the clock.  And we let him.  For days, he and I slept, ten minutes at a time, every few hours.  The rest of the time, we were topless, sequestered in the bedroom, while he did everything he could to be nourished from my body.  When he began to literally nurse my nipples off, we had the IBCLC over as quickly as we could.

I started supplements to increase my supply.  I drank water.  I ate oatmeal.  We weighed him before and after feeds, and he continued to lose weight.  Eventually our IBCLC resignedly informed me that there was not a lot left that we could try.  I was so thankful when she gave me permission to “give up;” I was tired, depressed, and feeling the struggle of following the same road I’d followed the first time around.  Even with education and support, it just wasn’t working.  I refused to put this baby through what the first had suffered through.  I decided that he deserved a present, happy mom.  And he got it.

Our twins are now eleven days old.  They are vibrant and beautiful.  They are also 34-week preemies.  So far, they’ve spent their entire lives in the hospital, finishing up their development and growing.  It is emotionally trying to be a parent of NICU twins; I cannot imagine what would happen to my self-esteem if I was trying to pump for them.  I know what my body can and cannot do.  I also know that this experience is hard enough for me without failing to feed them properly.  They are thriving on formula under the care of the amazing NICU nurses, and my husband and I (and assorted grandparents) bond with them by giving them bottles and snuggling them every day, as often as we are able.  We are so in love, and we cannot wait to bring them home!

When you second-guess the decision my husband and I made to formula feed them, you send a pretty offensive message.  You’re implying that we don’t care enough about our babies to do what you think is best for them.  You don’t know our history, and I shouldn’t have to relive it by having to explain it to you.  It’s not your business. It was painful enough when it happened; I’d rather not dredge it all up to random acquaintances and strangers who feel entitled to ask.

I thought I was impervious to comments and judgements about our family’s formula use, but I’ve discovered I’m not.  If you’re not directly responsible for my family’s medical care, please don’t ask.  That goes for every mom and baby, everywhere.


Feel like sharing your story? Email the FFF – formulafeeders@gmail.com.

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