BFD

Yes, it's true: I have a Bottle-Fed Daughter, BFD. I suppose it could stand for BreastFed Daughter just as easily, but it does not. Just becasue it's a bottle doesn't mean it's formula, but an obnoxious woman in Target today just assumed as much as she sneered at me: "Did you at least TRY to breastfeed?" Caught off guard, I was nice to her in response and explained Clementine's difficulty latching, my long nights with my breast pump, my concern. Of course, five minutes later I realized I should have said:

"Not that it's any of your business, bitch, but after a week of her screaming every time I put her to my breast, a week of her losing weight instead of gaining it, three visits with lactation consultants, endless phone conversations with nursing friends, hundreds of pages in various parenting books and ounces of milk on my clothes, in my hair and on my furniture, I gave the kid a bottle. She was starving. The bottle made her happy. I spent weeks after that enduring the screaming, using nipple shields and surgical tubing and frustrating the heck out of myself to get her to latch--all of which was unsuccessful. Now, in addition to feeding her a bottle, I also spend a good portion of my day pumping breast milk, showing committment to the whole breast milk concept that doubles yours. So don't assume that because I'm giving her a bottle (or becasue I'm dressed like an unshowered slob) I am some sort of degenerate parent. I am doing my best and THANK YOU for the f-ing support."

I remember going places with my sister when she was pregnant and feeling shocked at how people looked at her and felt free to comment about what she wore, how she walked, how she dressed, etc. When I got pregnant I was ready for that kind of public involvement--everyone has an opinion about baby's sex, how much weight mom is gaining, when the baby will come, etc. What I didn't realize is that pregnancy was just the beginning of my very public life. Now, everywhere I go people feel free to give me advice and to judge me. She's not wearing enough layers for this cold, she's wearing too many layers to be indoors, you shouldn't carry her around because you'll spoil her and on and on and on. I've heard it takes a village and all, but I don't think this is what that saying means.

And it's not like I'm not already totally mental about the fact that she won't latch. I watched a woman at the gym the other day flop down and nurse her kid like it was nothing--it left me zinging with jealousy. Of course, I rushed home to try to latch Clementine with NO LUCK. I realize that ship has sailed, but it's still hard to accept. In my perfect picture of what motherhood would be like, I was sitting comfortably with my little girl as she nursed her heart out. Now that most of my pre-motherhood illusions about motherhood are shattered, I sit next to a slurping breast pump and watch as ounces of milk pour out of me. It's not what I pictured, but it's good enough.

Clementine is ready for her bath! Such an easy ending to every post--I defer to her.