Hallelu–jah, Hallelu–jah, Hallelu–jah!
In the early morning gloom, I sat in my nursing chair beside the window and said a prayer before gently, oh so gently, drawing Nicholas down into nursing position. When he opened his mouth and began to nurse, I almost cried. Six squares of dawn crept up the wall, brightening from rose to copper to molten gold, and my baby held tight to the breast, drawing peace and comfort from the touch of skin to skin. And I, too, drew comfort from that touch…afraid to move, for fear of shattering a fragile moment.
I never really appreciated nursing as the gift it is to me. I rear up like a mother bear in its defense; I deliver impassioned orations on the subject… But until a few days ago, the full import never sank in. Not until Friday afternoon, when Nicholas saw me coming and arched his back, screamed, and pushed me away. And repeated the performance at 7:30 p.m. And at 9:30. And in the middle of the night. And Saturday morning, and noon, and afternoon, and evening, and all day Sunday. But long before then, I knew what was going on. It’s called a nursing strike. I knew it from reading Dr. Sears, and it was a textbook case: “They’re not very happy about the situation, but nevertheless they refuse to nurse.”
From Friday evening to Sunday night, I pumped every drop of precious milk and fed it to him in cups. Pumping is not a life-giving activity. Actually, it is for the baby. For Mommy…no. It takes twice as long for electricity and mechanics to draw out the milk as Baby does, and in the meantime, instead of cuddles and soft skin to hold, I had hard plastic, and a baby sitting in front of me screaming, desperate to be held. I called lactation consultants and friends, my mom and my sister, seeking advice. I found myself staring down the next four months, going, What if he weans himself? Am I going to have to spend this extra time every day for the next four months, pumping, and then turning around and having to feed it by cup? I don’t think I can do this!
Plus, there was the emotional toll. I knew he had an ear infection, and it probably hurt him to suck. I didn’t feel rejected…but I felt bereft. I have come to take that cuddle time for granted…to wish it away in pursuit of other activities. But now, as I held him against me, as I felt him growing more and more clingy by the hour, until I felt that I was being strangled by it…as he demanded the reassurance of closeness to Mommy while simultaneously refusing the best comfort Mommy has to offer…
Let’s just say it was a rough few days. There were some expletives. Some tantrums (the adult variety). Not my best days as Mommy. Or wife. Or human being, for that matter.
And so today, two days before Thanksgiving, I am so thankful. The strike is over. Hallelujah!
Note: for other thankful moments in the everyday, see “Tuesdays Unwrapped” at ChattingattheSky.com.
Kathleen M. Basi 
Way to hang in there, Kathleen! You and Nicholas weathered a tough few days!
Kate, You say things so well! This is exactly how I feel when I have to deal with a strike! Twice so far with Rebekah! It is so physically and emotionally agonizing! And I’m with you on the pumping thing-definately no fun! Only Rebekah isn’t taking bottles or cups and she just had to go without. I figured when she got really hungry she would go back to eating. The longest she went was 2 days, and she did eat once or twice in the middle of 2 days but one or two nursings in 48 hours is nothing really for a 2 or 3 month old… If she had continued we would have had to try something I suppose.
Ewwwww, what a nightmare! You make me realize just how good I’ve had it for the first 2.
singing right along with you! a precious gift to celebrate today!
Oh , what a memory rush.
And how brave of you to share the ugly.
Thank goodness everything is back on track. Nursing is just such a blessing.
I’m just wondering which mass part setting that Hallelujah was from 🙂
Gather 446. Look it up. 😛
We are dorks.