Mastitus Andronicus and the Febrile Feeding Frenzies

There be boobies and babies and even bottles ahead. Return of the Mammoth Mammary Misfortunes. Lactilagoons, pumping pains, and some tasty messy munchies. Oh and a few cognitive lightyear leaps... 

Mini-Mitts and the Angry Boob

Not to frame all parenthood in terms of struggle, but for all worthwhile accomplishments, there are birthing pangs. To create a beautiful new, the pretty (darned) old must chafe away. 

And learning is a bare naked time of terrifying vulnerability. When the stakes are as high as the flesh of your flesh (sometimes in baby form, and sometimes in the form of skin that baby has literally ripped right off of you under her talons), it can be a time of high striving for grand and noble reward. So I start by acknowledging the paradoxical stance most parents take when discussing their children: (1) yes it is the most exhausting, horrifying, annoying, vexing, unnerving and chaotic thing to ever happen to one; (2) but it's also the best, most joyful, amazing, and profound journey upon which you'll ever venture.

Because the two feelings are inextricably related. Call it Stockholm syndrome. Just don't call it late for dinner. Nothing of value comes without a cost and a struggle. And if you are taking it so in stride that you aren't the slightest bit put off from time to time, well, I question your eligibility for the parenting mantle. You might just be carrying the baby as an accessory.

That said, we continue with the baby battles. In many regards, I feel like the life of baby can be divided handily into three little pockets of battles/challenges/overlying motifs.

The first 6 weeks were the bloody (all too literally) postpartum shock of a body more enfeebled than it was in the latest throes of pregnancy and labor. In many ways, the baby herelf was the easy part. She was small. She needed constant nursing. She slept in odd and jagged spells. But the feel-good chemicals were strong, her cries were tearless, and her needs were simple. My exhaustion, however, was substantial. My body virtually ripped to shreds from that rapid ejection of life. It was a long haul just to be able to walk more than fifteen minutes at a time. And finally giving myself the rest required was an agonizing exercise in "taking it easy" and trying not to get too involved in day to day life or the exciting intrigues of our inevitably enthusiastic visitors.

Then there were the next months of let-down let-down: the boobie battles. When momma's milk evaporated, baby went on a very unintentional crash diet, and we clawed our way back from hours of pumps/supplements/and frustrations in the haze of purple crying. The Hail Mary dom perignon tic tac savior. And the final arduous struggle to tear baby from the plastic teat of an increasingly fervent bottle nipple preference and the iron maw of perpetual pumping. Husband and wife perilously at odds over the timbre and intent of her sobs and cries. Shaken by knowing she'd been left hungry before.

We stopped using formula (thank god for baby's belly) after a month. Baby took her last battle-bottle sometime before Thanksgiving. She has occasionally been offered one since, but at these times mostly gnaws on the tip (making mommy's boob tingle) and coughs with indignant splutter when milk comes through. Mommy waits until baby is old enough for a sippy cup, which seem somehow less seductive a replacement for her boobie, and she continues her dom perignon altoids (mint free because - of course - peppermint theoretically reduces some women's supply as surely as cookies boost it!). Some women are worried baby will never take a bottle. I worried she'd remember the ease and flow of those old bottles whilst already being distractible and impatient at the breast due to her ultra-aware age.

As this war wound down, we entered into sleep territory at the four month marker. The aftermath continues razing through life as we once knew it. Mommy bade adieu to her work with baby pipe dreams. Cribs, monitors, sleep sacks, books, and rituals dominated the dialectic. And sweet SAHM had the occasional success with a fair bit of bittersweet failure.

Current status during the ceasefire: 

(1) mommy's acceptance that baby doesn't really sleep more than 30-45 minutes at a time anymore during the day (except when it's an hour and a half and wait what?? Crazy baby), and that after that baby will spend any remaining time in the crib doing gymnastics and edging her way towards bursting straight out of the crib, quite possibly the nursery. We know one of these days all I will find is an open window and a rope fashioned from old onesies hanging out of the window. And that mommy doesn't care what baby's doing up there as long as mommy gets a moment to breath and/or do all the household chores and work she cannot even pretend to do when baby is downstairs;

(2) baby's acceptance that she doesn't really need to feed more than every four hours at night and that she can actually thumb-suck herself back to sleep if she's awake between those intervals; 

(3) a mutual agreement that baby will get drowsy and at least sort of sleepish (or lay there quietly maybe) after mommy reads and sings to her in the nursery and lays her in the crib;

(4) a mutual understanding that at least one nap on a four nap day will probably be taken out of the crib;

(5) an awesome video monitor supplants The Real Babies of Bellingham as the best reality tv this side of Senegal.


Aaaaand so we take a break to return to prior battles: ANGRY BOOB STRIKES BACK. With a vengeance. While bottles took baby scratches with equanimity, mommy's skin breaks more easily. No matter my stabs (har har, no the stabs were baby's) at ingenious mini-manicures, baby has talons. And she kneads as she nurses. Leaving both breasts with several scars and kitty scratches. Some worse than others.

At the same time, mommy found that disassociating nursing and napping seemed to help naps work a little better. This reduced the frequency of nursing. And the desperation to keep grumpy baby occupied, stir-crazy mommy socialized, and everyone napified also encouraged her to drop a few more pumping sessions a day.

Resulting in a backlog of milk. Resulting in a clogged duct. Resulting in broken infected skin. Resulting in... drumroll please... AN ABSCESS! In the milk maker area. And ouch. Let me just say ouch. To make it worse, baby sensed something was wrong and stopped much wanting to nurse on that side. Meaning more pumping, which didn't help with the irritation or the sanity or the rest.

My poor right breast was a snarled sunset of reds, purples, mauves and raw skin. The nipple itself distorted and cartoonish. And all the surrounding area unsettled and sensitive.

And so back to the Bellingham Center for Healthy Motherhood. And back to Mt. Baker Imaging (haven't been there since my fertility fandangos) for a breast ultrasound. Apparently, there is liquid, but they'd prefer not to "aspirate" (poke with a big needle and suck the liquid out, which may or may not leave a little hole in the skin through which milk would pour) so long as antibiotics are seeming to work. Fingers crossed. We're hoping for a big improvement by tomorrow.

The good news is that the angry boob still looks utterly battered, but it's more pinkish than purple. And baby has been a little less reticent about nursing on that side. Sometimes. She still has no problem suddenly getting thoroughly disinterested in nursing, and whipping her head off the breast while still fully latched. In fact, it's a common enough occurrence that mommy has to practice her zen breathing in advance. The downside is that increased nursing involves increased discomfort afterwards, since she's still nursing somewhat brutally in light of the changed shape of her number two suck sack. But I feel less urgent about pumping to get the milk out at, say, 2 a.m., and that's nice.

Still chained to the pump, but not in the middle of the night anymore. And I've discovered that those teeny tiny socks that don't quite fit her feet anymore are pretty optimal for her teeny tiny claws. Well, she still manages to get them off with all her busyness, but most of the time it still protects my worst areas from the utter writhing agony of a fistful of nail.

And so we carry on, having added one more pill to the arsenal. And one more wrinkle to the magical mummery of baby rearing. Little one is almost six months, and oh so mechanically close to making a mobility breakthrough. I envision all new battles beginning then. And evolving well into her late forties and fifties. Because she will always be worth it all. And I will always be there with my pound of mangled flesh hating and loving every step of the ride.

Of Boobs, Bellies, and Battlefields - Turn for the Worse 

Booby battles continues over the blare of a nap detente. It appeared at first that a little blue capsule (or four a day for ten days) was all that stood between me and recovery. My angry boob mellowed out. Chaya started nursing better on the right side again. All was well.

And then, not so much. The night before last, swelling increased to areas yet untouched. There was tightness, achy inflammation, and a really hard spot.

And despite my fear of fear itself (and the shame of possible hypochondria) I called the Bellingham Center for Healthy Motherhood to suggest my motherhood was not currently on track to healthy. Being the ridiculously caring and present health providers that they are, I was beckoned in at Chaya-beastie-nap's convenience. And it was agreed that things looked gnarly. And angry. And it was time to go back back back for another ultrasound. Shockingly, the Mt. Baker Imaging Women's Diagnostics Center had availability for "immediately" and so off I went.

There, they also agreed that things weren't looking fantastic (but from a deeper, more internal perspective) and that it was time to break out the biggish needles.

I dun been aspirated! That means they stuck a needle in my breast and used an ultrasound guide to locate a lagoon of puss-fluid, which they then extracted into a syringe.

Remember, dear Mr. (W)right when you got that liver biopsy and thought it was the funniest thing ever to respond to any question about your well-being with "they stabbed me in the liver!!" Well, buddy, "they stabbed me in the boob!!!"

And they drew out some delicious looking puss as well as some walled in milk. I guess I have a clog somewhere along the way? Or little lagoons of milk in my bosom. Uncomfortable little lagoons. That don't seem to clear up. I'm not a fan.

Luckily Gramma Pam was nearby and able to watch Chaya immediately while this all happened. Chaya spent her time flirting in the lobby, making eyes at everyone who came in, and showing off her mad new skillz. Oh yes, I came upstairs yesterday to find Miss Chaya on her hands and knees rocking back and forth! Holy moley, we are in for it. 

She's not super agile about it yet, but these are definitely the foundations of crawling happening around here. We are in trouble. I am particularly in danger. That girl is wiley and - as primary warden/caregiver - I'm in the crosshairs.

At any rate, the prompt aspiration did not magically cure my problems and I'm still waiting for a report on the lab cultures. I desperately hope to hear that there is some superior antibiotic that will clear everything up. Currently I am unable to nurse from this side, pushing me back to the early nightmare days of pumping and bottling. They're less nightmarish now, somehow, but the pumping frequency is demanding. And this is not just for nourishing my child, so much as preventing painful and dangerous engorgement. I got no sleep last night between feeding from my left boob plus ambidextrous bottles and sneaking downstairs to pump out the ever-filling lactalagoon of my right boob.

I am of course exhausted, frustrated, uncomfortable, and having stomach annoyances from the antibiotics. But I'm glad the turn for the worse came during the weekend so that I have help from my darling husband.

In the meantime, I'm making my peace once more with the bottle baby. It's cute now that she can hold her own bottle. She still makes the most soul-searching eye contact over a bottle. And grabs your face just like she does while breastfeeding.And pumping is still a major pain in the nipple. Mostly the time filling aspect is the most brutal. Hard to be chained to a stationary object with an active little baby. The day I wean is the day the PISA gets thrown off a tall building while I scream Yippee Kayee Motherf**er! The Spectra will go to the bottom of the lake perhaps.

The time is winding on and still no lab results... Will I have my answers soon? Will I figure out new and inventive ways to bottle feed and pump with a baby who must have all things (cords and pump equipment) in her grasp? Will a bushel full of cabbage leaves dry up the lagoon and send me on my merry way to happy formulaland? Will Monday bring a whole new series of aspirations and visits to the Mt. Baker Imaging Center? Will I come in to find baby hanging from the ceiling next?

I really haven't the faintest at this point, but I'll certainly keep you - sorry, so, so sorry in advance - abreast!

Bonzai Boobie Bath and the Six Month Magic

Another week past and the battles wage on. As I write, I have currently plopped the left-most half of my modest decolletage in a bowl of warm water, epsom salts, and essential oils. Soaking the udder is my new naptime hobby and calling. Because my life is thrilling like that. Like a spa day for one small vector of my body mass. Maybe next time, my toe will get shiatsu. Who can say?

We left off with a turn for the worse in Abscess-Mastitis land. Or better in that I did in fact seek medical attention and get my massive abscess aspirated. There was still some uncertainty as to whether I had MRSA or not. I do not. Just garden variety nasty strepoducacacadoodledoo. And the antibiotics I had been taking ought to have been doing the job. They actually were kicking some infectious bacterial ass, except that the clogged areas (near the nipples, by the way) were still very much backlogging milk into a painful breeding ground for the nasty infectious puss. Oh there was more in the magical land of TMI. So much more.

Anyways, let's montage that nonsense out of ponderous tomes and straight into victory - here's me squeezing, soaking, scrubbing, exfoliating a very delicate lady area, pulling off skin-like-something from that delicate lady area, pumping, nursing, crying, and finally squirting my baby right in the face with and unexpected surge of milk.

What a relief.

But I'm not out of the woods yet, so I'm reticent to proclaim anything but a detente. Today I had a follow up and we agreed that it's nice to see the nip area back down a third of its peak swollen stage, and that pink is a much nicer color than dark red and purple. But we also agreed that probably antibiotics don't need to stop just yet. There's still some hard areas and a fair bit of pink.

And so we carry on carry on.And panic when baby atypically decides to try out sleeping through the night. Yes, I eventually sneaked into the nursery and nursed her while she was still asleep. Yes, it's a thing. They call it a dream feed. Because that boob needs to be emptied, even if it no longer fills up as urgently as pre-mastitis. And if I had to pump, you know she'd have woken up hangry immediately afterwards. Plus I am still devising elaborate execution plans for both my pumps at this point, so dream feeding it is!

Of course going through all of this and wondering when the next resurgence might explode has been a contemplative time of transition. Will mommy soon reclaim her boobs for herself (and occasionally her paramour?)

After the domperidone started working, I had set six months as my initial goal for pulling out all the stops to nurse the little beast. And we're at six months.

I possibly appended a "until she's firmly on solids" to that goal. Breast milk has qualities that help digest solids while babies are adjusting. It is, of course, also the bulk of nutrition and the ideal nutrition until age one. But formula can follow as second best.

She's not firmly on solids by a fair mile, although solids are darned well on her pretty firmly these days. I have discovered that she enjoys eating sweet potato and peanut butter from a small spatula. And that she can't get enough black rice and pear porridge. I have discovered a few more things as well: (1) baby food is super fun to make, (2) Chaya is not thrilled when she accidentally throws a spatula full of brown rice and pear into her eye, (3) avocado is interesting but weird in baby land (apparently "finger foods" mean "foods you attempt to masticate and swallow through fingers alone," (4) while I disagree with the slightly misleading and inaccurate "food before one is just for fun," food is a lot of fun.

Oh and diapers get a lot more interesting even when it's just a little bit of semi-solid material passing through.

But yes, I think now that she's starting to enjoy the textures and flavors of various caloric mushes, Chaya's going to like food. And I'm going to like making a right mess with her. Of course food will be a small percentage of her diet for a long time to come, but it's a way for me to give "myself" to my baby in a more abstract and independent way. Instead of processing the food internally and giving back, I externalize the process and give her more and more agency in choosing it while sharing my own love for the tastes and textures of the world (and eating half of all of it myself).

Of course there's so much I am not quite ready to give up - the intimacy (when she isn't clawing holes into my chest, jabbing her talongs in my eyes and nose, and shrieking at me), that feeling of becoming one and giving myself to her in the most personal of ways, the convenience (ok this is debatable - I don't need bottles, but it's a PITA to feed distractibaby on the go), the extra calorie kick (when I'm chained to the house and too tired to get out, I have to acknowledge I'm hugely out of my usual shape), and mainly the excuse to go to the BCHM for Breastfeeding Cafe every Tuesday. And I see so many mothers struggling so much harder for so many fewer results. I am a "success" story in a very heartfelt community. It's weird to even conceive of walking away from that. Like a strange version of the sunk cost fallacy.

But I've also made my peace with letting go, and always when the equation favors the downsides of trying to nurse against the benefits provided. And although breastmilk is great at any age, the hugest relative benefits diminish with each passing month. I've made progress towards minimizing the downsides by cutting back on pumping. I'd like to - much more carefully, because I don't need more clogs and mastitis - phase out the final two pumping sessions. And if switching to a bottle meant encouraging Chaya to nightwean with no fear of any consequences for mommy's boobs... well I wouldn't complain about the extra sleep. I suspect the boobs could handle the night weaning at peak form, of course, but if not...

I am ready to wean down the dosage of my domperidone. It's a lugubrious process anyways, so beginning now is not as dramatic as it might sound. I'm currently taking twelve pills a day. To wean, I drop one pill at a time at weekly intervals - one week with eleven pills a day, one week with ten, etc. If there's a real reason to get off quickly, you can drop a pill every three days, but that comes with risks of side effects and so on. It's possible that a slow wean could find my sweet spot dosage at a much lower amount. It's even possible that I could wean completely without losing my ability to breastfeed, though less common.

I suspect that Miss thing will self-wean before the age of one. She's not been a particularly avid nurser, and certainly is ecstatic about food (despite being horrible at actually ingesting it)

And that darned little tiger is eventually going to get teeth... just saying... 

Hard to imagine breaking the mold and giving up the certainty that I can "EBF" when so many women kill themselves for upwards of a year or two to provide just half of their child's diet with milk.

But in the meantime, I'm captive to the vestigial mastitis hanging about in my bosom. Must obsess over every hour between feeds, soak that boobie, and pump away! Chaya doesn't mind. As long as mommy keeps loading up that spoon and too much food (milk or otherwise) doesn't get in her eye!

And hey, sitting! She can kind of sit. If I put her in a sitting position first! And then she falls to the side randomly after several minutes of looking very sturdy. Like a cute little drunk person. My little baby girl is growing up and preparing for college.