During National Breastfeeding Awareness Week, I found myself reflecting deeply on my own breastfeeding journey—or more accurately, the struggle that was my breastfeeding journey. My son Rudy arrived at just 34 weeks, born via an emergency Caesarean section. I had a birth course scheduled for the following weekend, where I hoped to learn everything I needed about breastfeeding. But life had its own plans. Rudy spent nearly three weeks in the NICU, where he was tube-fed, bottle-fed, and occasionally given the chance to try breastfeeding.
Breastfeeding wasn’t something I had given much thought. My breasts were small and unremarkable, so I assumed it would be easy. What no one tells you is how incredibly challenging it can be. There are so many reasons it might not work out, and I learned this the hard way.
Rudy’s tiny size and weak suck reflex meant we had to use a nipple shield for every attempt at breastfeeding. With the help of the lactation consultants, I managed to figure out how to use the shield, though it didn’t seem so daunting at the time. After all, if Rudy didn’t get a feed from me, there was always a bottle of my pumped milk ready to go.
Even after he was discharged, I always had a bottle of measured milk waiting for him. Those first few weeks were all about numbers and meeting intake requirements to ensure he gained weight. I was constantly anxious that he wasn’t getting enough from the breast, so topping him up with expressed milk became my safety net.
The first time a child health nurse came to our home, I was petrified. I felt like a fraud in my new role as a mother, utterly unprepared and overwhelmed. I struggled to recall everything I’d learned in the hospital and tried my best. The nurse’s approval felt hollow when I realized Rudy probably didn’t get much milk. Her main concern seemed to be the spew rag on his bassinet rather than our feeding troubles.
Thus began my relentless cycle of "triple feeding"—breastfeeding, pumping, and bottle-feeding. I adhered to a strict three-hour pumping schedule in the hospital, and continued for nearly ten months. I clung to the belief that breast milk was “nutritionally superior” and that it would make Rudy grow big and strong.
Every feeding session was a battle. Rudy would scream and flail as I tried to attach the shield, growing increasingly frustrated when he couldn’t get a proper latch. It really was a shit show. I always had a bottle of warmed milk on standby, and after each feed, I would pump, label, and store the milk, never letting up on the sterilization. The process was relentless, especially in the dead of night, and the thought of him possibly getting sick because of my sterilizing shortcuts was always at the front of my mind. I wouldn’t leave home without a bottle, fearing the unpredictability of breastfeeding.
Public breastfeeding was out of the question. The thought of trying to get the shield on while Rudy was in meltdown mode was too daunting. I often found myself in the car, trying to feed him in the parking lot, only to face tears and frustration when the shield fell off. The constant juggling of appointments, sleep, and feeding schedules added to my stress, making every day feel like a monumental challenge.
I often wondered if switching to formula would be the answer, but I was so invested in the idea of breastfeeding. I even bought three different breast pumps, finally finding a hands-free one that allowed me to pump while driving to appointments. It was a small relief amidst the chaos, ensuring Rudy would always have an emergency bottle.
After nine months of this exhausting cycle, Rudy’s worsening reflux prompted us to try lactose-free formula. While it brought some relief, it wasn’t the miracle solution I had hoped for. The monotonous routine of pumping, feeding, and cleaning left me drained and limited my freedom to even simple outings.
My breastfeeding journey ended when Rudy went on one of his many nursing strikes that lasted over a week. I was relieved he decided to stop on his own rather than having to force the issue. I continued to express milk until he was around 12 months old, clinging to the idea of giving him “nutritionally superior” breast milk.
Looking back, I wish I had switched to formula sooner. It would have spared us both countless meltdowns. At the end of the day, what matters most is that your baby is fed and healthy. I probably also only have this view now due to hindsight. If you or a mum you know is struggling with feeding don't offer advice, just be sympathetic.
And on a final note—why aren’t there glow-in-the-dark shields? If you know, you know!