Changing my expectations instead of my baby

I had a lot of ideas of what kind of mom I would be. They were in line with what kind of woman I am: independent, feminist, adventurous, in charge. But I forgot to factor in one BIG thing. I didn’t know what kind of person my baby would be. And how much that would change me. Or at least my priorities. Because right now he’s number one. I’ll never get these moments back. But I have the rest of my life to be me.

You see, my baby does not take a bottle. Not will not, does not. If he was starving, I’m pretty sure he would probably gulp down some bottled milk, but he is not and therefore he does not. It’s that simple. But it took a long time to feel that way.

We exclusively breastfeed, going strong for nearly six months now. That means we are chained by an invisible rope of by proximity and feeding times. And since we feed on demand and not on a schedule that means I can never really be away from him for more than an hour tops. And I’m OK with that. But it took a while to get there.

Thanks to Obamacare, my insurance covered a fancy (read: $300) pump so I could express and save milk. I thought this was an amazing ticket to freedom and modern motherhood. I could have it all. I could EBF (exclusively breastfeed) AND have some independence. I could truly be SUPERMOM. Leave daddy with some bottles and have a girls’ night? No problem! Have a sitter and go to work meetings? No big deal, right?

Wrong.

Despite the fact that my early baby came home from the hospital drinking mother’s milk from bottles like a champ, we switched to EBF when we got home and I found pumping and washing all those pump parts and bottles and heating milk was a lot more time consuming than simply serving milk straight from the tap. Little did I know a few weeks later when I wanted to get my toes done with a girlfriend for mother’s day that my son would scream bloody murder when he got hungry. That 9 pound angel was strong and pushed away the bottle like it was some evil torture device. Every couple weeks we would try again.

I read about it. I sought advice from more experienced mothers. Tips included:

• Some stubborn babies will refuse the bottle if mom is in the room. Try having a caretaker feed baby with mom away.
• Try making the bottle extra warm.
• Try cuddling baby up to you like to mimic the intimacy of of breastfeeding.
• Try having dad put a worn t-shirt or something that smells like mom between him and baby.
• Try the bait and switch, begin breastfeeding and introduce the bottle mid feeding.
• Try making bottle feeding a completely different type of meal by making baby comfortable in his swing or bouncer chair.
• Try bottle feeding in the morning or when baby is normally in a good mood.
• Try feeding baby when sleepy and less alert.
• Try fresh milk that hasn’t been chilled or frozen first.
• The list goes on.

We tried it all. He would drink small amounts. But it would all end the same way. With my son screaming and me being called from the kitchen, downstairs or texted at my work meeting or social gathering “hurry home!”

It ruined my ability to enjoy being away from him. Knock, knock. Who’s there? Hellooooooooooo, mom guilt.

I decided we should discuss it with our pediatrician. We LOVE our pediatrician. He has the perfect mix old school knowledge, modern practicality and dry wit that hits both my husband and I perfectly.

ME: Doctor, my baby won’t take a bottle.

DOCTOR: Then stop trying to give your baby a bottle.

Groundbreaking? Probably not. Earthshaking in my little world? Yes-siree.

He did elaborate. If I didn’t NEED to be away from my baby for extended periods, then why not just keep on keeping on? Of course we could persist and get him to take a bottle. And if I worked out of the home and had to return to work and leave him with another daytime caretaker we definitely would. But since that is fortunately not our reality. So, why? Why do that to him when he has obviously shown us he loves what nature intended? Why put him through that stress? And what’s more, why put US, the parents, through that stress? This whole having a baby thing is challenging enough most days. Why make it more difficult with what would probably be three days of screaming and refusing to give him anything but a bottle.

For what? So I could have a little me time? Why, when I couldn’t truly enjoy that time knowing it made my sweet child so unhappy? He needs me right now. And I’m OK with that. We made a difficult decision as parents. We would stop trying to force the issue. People still offer me advice on getting him to take a bottle when I explain why I have to bring him with me everywhere or stay with him at all times. I have to just smile and listen and nod and accept that that is not where we’re at.

I don’t have a baby problem. I have a modern life expectations problem. The word supermom has been thrown around for years. And I only think that expectation has grown. I read a joke somewhere that Pinterest was invented by a man trying to con women into being perfect homemakers. The perfect modern mama Martha Steward one-ups-manship. A little sexist, but kind of funny. We are expected to have it all, the glamorous career — preferably something we can do at home while caring for our EBF, cloth-diapered, picture-perfect children, exercising our thin waistlines, and still have time to Instagram our organic, made-from-scratch, garden-grown dinner each night. Plus, now we’re supposed to not lose our cool — we need keep up with whether Zooey Dechanel bangs are in this week or not.

I love this post on The Pregnant Chicken called “Why You’re Not Failing as a Mother”:

As for the past generations that like to tell you that they raised six kids on their own and did it without a washing machine? Well, sort of. Keep in mind child rearing was viewed pretty differently not that long ago and you could stick a toddler on the front lawn with just the dog watching and nobody would bat an eye at it – I used to walk to the store in my bare feet to buy my father’s cigarettes when I was a kid. As a mother, you cooked, you cleaned, but nobody expected you to do anything much more than keep your kids fed and tidy.

My grandmother used to tell the story about how she forgot my mother at the grocery store in the early 40s. She walked up to the store with my mother sleeping in her carriage, parked it outside with all the other sleeping babies (I’ll let that sink in), went inside to do her shopping, then walked home forgetting that she’d taken the baby with her. She quickly realized her mistake and walked back and retrieved my mother who was still sleeping outside the store.

In my house, my husband cooks dinner most nights, you need to call before dropping by so I can change out of my yoga pants and on Saturday night I’ll be catching up on Project Runway onDemand while nursing my baby to sleep.

Some days I miss my pre-baby self where I was game for a Thursday afternoon lunch date with a girlfriend that involved cocktails or a Saturday where my to do list included: “latte, pedicure, shopping, dinner out.” Now just thinking of doing ONE of those things with a baby in tow makes me tired! I’m changing my expectations of parenthood, instead of trying to make my baby fit into some kind of cookie cutter picture of what I thought life would be like. I’ve had to learn it’s OK to SLOW DOWN and just enjoy the moment. Everything else can wait a few more months.

I’ll end with this awesome poem:

Mother, O’ Mother, come shake out your cloth,

Empty the dustpan, poison the moth.

Hang out the washing, make up the bed,

Sew on a button and butter the bread.

Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?

She’s up in the nursery, blissfully rocking.

Oh, I’ve grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue,

Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.

Dishes are waiting and bills are past due,

Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek – peekaboo.

The shopping’s not done and there’s nothing for stew,

And out in the yard there’s a hullabaloo.

But I’m playing Kanga and this is my Roo.

Look! Aren’t his eyes the most wonderful hue?

Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow,

But children grow up, as I’ve learned to my sorrow.

So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!

I’m rocking my baby and babies don’t keep.

~ Ruth Hulbert Hamilton