“Just enjoy your baby.”

Those words were life to me. A breath of air so fresh and light.

They were spoken to me by my lactation consultant, as I faced what looked to be another failed attempt at nursing.

Hormones and lack of sleep, mixed with society’s pointed finger, had me feeling like a failure once again.

Memories of seeing my first born weighing less than his birth weight at almost three weeks of age had been knocking at my door since becoming pregnant with my second.

The vision of his doctor looking concerned. Telling me to start formula right away. That very day. Within the hour.

Me crying in the grocery store parking lot contemplating the ramifications of what he was asking me to do.

The exhausting and overwhelming routine of nursing him. Feeding him a bottle of formula. Pumping for at least half an hour. (Barely eeking out 2 ounces) Washing the bottles and pumping supplies. Just in time to start the routine all over again.

It was all encompassing. Exhausting to the core. Too much for this first-time mom living in a town with no family or friends nearby.

Where was the proverbial village everyone talks about? I didn’t have one. What I had was me, alone in a house, with postpartum depression, and a tiny baby of whom I was failing.

My wonderful mother had come for a few weeks to help out. And my husband was a huge help when he was home. But he was back to work, and my mom had gone back home.

I tried to prepare.

I had gone to the breast-feeding course given by the hospital before my son was born. I had read the books. I had met with the lactation lady at the hospital the day after he was born. The nurses had helped me make sure he was latching. I had gotten up every few hours to feed him. I had done everything “right.”

So why wasn’t it working?

Did I not nurse him soon enough after he was born? Should I have tried more skin time? Should I have done the two hours after he was born differently? Did I sleep too long one of those first nights? Did I miss a step when the milk came in? Was I not holding him in the right position? Was I too stressed to let the milk down?

Was I…? Did I…? Should I…?

Now here I was, 3 ½ years later with my second. A daughter. And it was happening all over again.

This time I had met with the lactation lady before giving birth. We made a plan. I took notes. She came to see me on the day my daughter was born and we went over everything again.

I wanted to be successful. I wanted it to work.

Those first weeks were spent getting through red, raw, painful nipples. Working past excruciating blisters. Convincing my well-meaning husband that I was doing it. That it was working this time. That our daughter was doing well.

Only to go to her 3 month check up and be told that she was in the 5^th percentile for weight and needed to be put on formula.

After that appointment, and those devastating words, I drove to the park to nurse my daughter and to call my lactation consultant. Through the tears, I told her what the doctor had said.

We discussed the options and reviewed the things I had done. She told me there was a chance that my daughter is just a small baby and will always run in the low percentile for weight. (Turns out she is…)

But given the history of my son’s first few months, and the uncertainty that comes with nursing exclusively, she said that I may want to listen to the doctor and start at least partly supplementing with formula.

Then she said those words…

“Just enjoy your baby.”

She knew me a little by now. She saw how hard I could be on myself. She had heard me say that this was our last baby. And she knew, as a mother herself, how precious and fleeting this time was.

And so, she gave me permission. Permission to do what I wanted to do. Whatever that looked like for me. Permission to choose and not listen to what everyone else in society was saying. Permission to not stress about it. Permission to not compare. Permission to do it however I wanted to do it. Permission to just do what worked for me and my daughter. To not start that exhausting routine of nursing, bottle, pump, dishes, nursing, bottle, pump, dishes…. again. But to just be with my baby and let go of any guilt.

To just enjoy one another and this precious stage together.

I do believe breast milk is best. But it’s not always possible. And thankfully we live in an age where we do have some good options.

I know some reading this may want to start listing off a bunch of facts and figures. Of how and what I should have done differently. Of what I should have tried.

It’s nothing new. This topic has been the subject of debate for thousands of years. Before formula (and all the other options we have today) when a mother had trouble nursing, there were wet nurses. Their history can make one want to cry. And sometimes even laugh. There’s an account of an early 17^th century obstetrician who was against red heads being wet nurses. He believed their hot temperament could be harmful to their breastmilk and to the child.

As crazy as that sounds, sometimes it doesn’t seem like we’ve moved much past this kind of thinking. The internet can be a wonderful tool. But when it comes to breast feeding, the amount of conflicting information can make a mother’s head spin.

I’m sure, even now, some reading this will want to condemn the lactation lady for giving me permission to quit. But that’s not what she did. She told me to enjoy my baby. And what that looked like for me was my choice.

Most mothers are trying to do what’s best for their baby. And that choice looks different for everyone.

So, can we agree to give each other permission?  

Permission to choose how we feed our baby without feeling guilty about it?

Motherhood comes with so much guilt. Let’s make this one less thing to feel guilty about.

Enjoy your baby!