I have two kids and breastfed both of them. My son until he was one, my daughter for four months so far. Breastfeeding was never a question and was a very important goal in my process of becoming a mother. But — and I’m already steeling myself for the comments — I’ve started to wonder if that one choice has done more or less good for my relationship with my husband and my own personal identity as a woman.
Breastfeeding is an incredible power. I can give life and sustain it. I am the sole provider of sustenance for my infant. Though “natural,” it is not “easy” and it is something a man will literally never understand. And therein lies the problem.
I recently read an article about unpaid emotional labor that struck way too many chords for me. It should be required reading for heterosexual couples. It highlighted the plethora of concerns and considerations constantly floating around in my head, nagging me for their attention, whether it’s my responsibility to carry them out or not. When I talked about it with my therapist (because therapy is awesome and everyone needs it), she gave me a four page list of household responsibilities and suggested my husband and I discuss who’s expected to take care of each.
One of the only things not on this extensive list was “breastfeeding.” Obviously this would fall to me in both planning and execution. And that’s when I began to wonder if I had made the right choice.
My son was a terrible eater. He would eat slowly and inconsistently. He’d eat for 30 minutes, fall asleep for 30, then wake up and want to eat again immediately. We couldn’t even make it through a trip to Target without having to stop in the Lawn and Garden section to nurse him. I felt constantly burdened by the pressure — especially at night. I began to resent my husband and his ability to sleep through crying and feeding. I felt like some sort of cow martyr, but I never once questioned my choice to breastfeed.
After three months, I went back to work. Pumping was awful and I could never keep up with his appetite, but I now had a sense of normalcy and I didn’t have to be the one physically feeding him at every meal. By seven months in, I really couldn’t keep up and I finally went to Target to buy formula — feeling like a criminal and failure the whole time. I felt more embarrassed picking a formula than a high school student picking a box of condoms. My face flushed, I skimmed the labels briefly before grabbing one and shuffling off. I was so ashamed, I went to the self check out tried to avoid eye contact with anyone.
And then I got home and a huge sense of relief washed over me. I was no longer alone. It wasn’t all up to me now. Anyone, literally anyone, could make my son a bottle. And while I still nursed him until he was one, it felt less like a chore.
Flash forward three years and here am again, breastfeeding my daughter, who is in every possible way a completely different experience. She’s an efficient and hearty eater who wastes no time at the boob. And this year, I’m not working, which means no pumping required (just when I want to have extra milk). However, it also means there’s no meal I am not present for. So far she won’t take a bottle, which is fine, but it has truly emphasized how much her life and health are my responsibility and mine alone.
This time around there is less resentment; she eats better than my son ever did, and sleeps better too. And yet, as I sit up with her even just one time during the night, I cannot help but notice my husband’s snores, a sign of his blissful ignorance to the pressure I feel.
Being a stay-at-home-mom and a breastfeeding mom at this time in our country has allowed, even forced, me to be self-reflective about the gender roles inherent in my relationship with my husband. And reading over the list my therapist gave me, I realized that “breastfeeding” wasn’t on that list because it couldn’t be delegated. No matter how much he wants to help, that one is on me. And one night a sacrilegious, wholly unexpected thought popped into my head, “Is breastfeeding setting me backwards in my desire to be equal? Would using formula be more empowering? Is formula-feeding the ‘feminist’ choice I wasn’t seeing?”
I had previously never questioned the “power” that breastfeeding gave me, the power of life-giving, the power of nurturing. But if I’ve learned one thing from Spider-Man, it is: with great power comes great responsibility. And despite the fact that I have the privilege to breastfeed in ideal conditions, that responsibility was still making me feel less than. I am constrained by time, by proximity to my baby, by dietary restrictions, by the functionality of my wardrobe, by lack of sleep, the list went on and on. Formula would give me freedom. Formula would put me on even footing with everyone else, particularly my husband.
And then I realized: that’s not the point. As an English teacher I’ve always told my students that asking the right question is always the first step in good analysis. Trying to decide if formula was more “feminist” than breastfeeding was the right question to snap me into reality. The problem is not the method. The problems are the societal constraints that make both hard. Women are often caught in a lose-lose when it comes to motherhood.
Breastfeeding? Good for you, but also put your boobs away you disgusting exhibitionist.
Formula? Fed is best; enjoy your freedom, but also, did you even try before resorting to poison?
Working? Great job sticking to your own dreams, but also why would you even have kids if you’re just going to hand them off to a stranger?
Staying at home? Way to prioritize your family and give them your full attention, but also, don’t you even have your own goals to be more than “just a mom”?
I’ve done all of the above and they are all hard. For me, I had to realize that breastfeeding was just one more example is a larger issue, so I just needed to go with my gut on whether or not to continue. Being a mom is the single hardest thing I’ve ever done and it’s often made harder in ways that even the most doting husbands are unaware of. Victoria’s Secret, how about you start making nursing bras so new moms can feel “sexy” too? Old man at the mall, please stop glaring because you can see a millimeter of my boob. Legislators, how about some paid family bonding time for all Americans? Employers, designate a pumping room for new moms. Husbands, do more even when you already think you’re doing enough. Moms, don’t judge other moms and definitely don’t judge yourself. All moms carry the weight of the emotional labor we do, and most of all, we need to cut ourselves some slack and be ready with a DGAF attitude whenever we need it.
