Nursing my children
I nursed seven children, one at a time. When our eldest was born in a birthing center, a midwife attending, I was not taught how to nurse and in fact did not figure out how for three days. Our son nearly died of dehydration. He lay on a bed in the emergency room moving only his eyes; once he had a bottle of formula he wolfed it down and immediately felt better.
I still didn’t get any instruction on how to breastfeed, so at home my mother held his arms while he yelled and I squirted him in the mouth from my breast. What a way to learn how to express milk!
My husband and I knew we couldn’t afford to buy formula; it’s far cheaper to feed mom. So I insisted on nursing and together my son and I figured it out. He nursed consistently until I became pregnant with a second child. I had struggled with severe morning sickness the first time, to the point of dehydration. So I weaned him. Fortunately he was willing to take an occasional bottle, and by the time his sister was born he was 18 months old eating table food.
This time as soon as she was born they laid her on my stomach and she started rooting. I celebrated mentally as I hooked her up. Right after that my body reacted to her barracuda-like sucking; OUCH! She had no trouble nursing; she sucked her thumb and carried a blanket, very much like Linus.
When she was 10 months old I got pregnant with number three. Again I weaned my nursing child, though by this time I knew better how to handle morning sickness. Turns out if you’re in doubt, eat something. If your nausea goes away when your blood sugar goes up, you’re morning sick. If your nausea gets worse, you have the flu.
This third child wanted to know what was going on, but also wanted to keep nursing. I had to keep him covered with a blanket and bonk him on the head when he jerked his head around to look while holding on with his teeth. I still wonder how much of that was his personality and how much was having more distracting things going on.
I was clinically depressed while pregnant with number four. I refused medication until she was 2 years old, because I wanted to keep nursing. On reflection I’m not sure whether that was the best plan; our relationship was very strained because of depression, and yet I enjoyed nursing; it required sitting and relaxing, which I needed.
Four years passed before number five was born. She had a thyroid problem at birth. While she spent a week in the ICU I stayed in a spare room in the maternity ward, pumping milk regularly so the nurses could encourage her to drink it between nursing. The lactation consultant was stunned at how much extra milk I produced at each pumping: four 4 oz bottles each time. My daughter couldn’t keep herself awake, but apparently got enough to drink. With medication she developed normally. I nursed her for 20 months.
We moved across country; my husband served 15 months in Iraq. He came home for two weeks during which our sixth child was born. Again I had depression but I had a lot of support from my parents, church members, relatives, and friends. My husband returned home to stay when this baby was 7 months old. Immediately he made plans to move again, which stunned me. He wanted to work as a college teacher while finishing his PhD. So in the process of moving I weaned this child; thankfully she took to a bottle willingly.
In northern Wisconsin our seventh child was born. He was devoted to nursing, religiously. He would not take a bottle for anyone, not even his father. I nursed him until he was two years old, while teaching him to drink from a cup and to eat table food. Finally I went out of town for a solid week, leaving him with his dad and siblings. Poor kid! He mourned. He wanted to nurse again when I got back, but the pattern had been broken.
At some point I was told the worldwide average for nursing is age 5. Average! I loved nursing and would have been willing to continue, even dual nursing, if I had been told it was a good idea. It helped my physical and mental health for the time I did it. It was work, of course, but just living is work.
