Once upon a time I was pregnant and planning to breastfeed my baby. This choice was discussed thoroughly with my doctor. I read books and pamphlets and talked to close friends.  “Righty” started leaking when I was only three months pregnant. I knew I was going to be a milk factory. I was prepared. I was educated. I was going to do it, and I was going to rock at it.

After delivering Nicky, I demanded time to breastfeed right away. Nicky was not going to the nursery, and I was not leaving the labor suite until I’d given it a try.

I tried. Nicky didn’t latch, but I wasn’t discouraged.

The next morning, I tried a few times on my own. I knew I could do it, and yet Nicky had no interest in it at all. Nurses tried to help me, CNAs tried to help me, the lactation consultant from Hell tried to help me, but nothing would work. After much trying, I was introduce to the breast pump. Twenty minutes went by, and nothing had come out.

How could there be nothing? I’d been leaking for six months.

On our second night at the hospital, Nicky was brought to our room where he screamed and screamed. I tried desperately to feed him, but he only became more and more frustrated. I was a wreck, so I finally turned to Scotty and said, “Let’s give him a bottle. Just this once.” Scotty went to the nursery and came back with a bottle. I fed Nicky, and I felt such relief.

The next morning we went home. I tried feeding Nicky again. It wasn’t working. I decided to try pumping. A friend of mine had pumped six months worth of milk and frozen it in a few weeks time. I wouldn’t be breastfeeding per se, but at least Nick could have the nutrition of breast milk. I called around to a few companies and found a pump to rent. I felt relieved again.

I pumped for twenty minutes every two hours and never had more than an ounce of milk. I was in extreme pain, and while I was waiting for something magical to happen, Nick was supplemented with formula.  I had to wake in the middle of the night to not only feed Nicky but to pump. I only slept in thirty-minute intervals. Nicklaus woke up six time a night. It got to the point where I wouldn’t even walk in the room with the pump. I hated it. It was a torturing device, and just knowing it existed was enough to set me off bawling for hours.

On New Year’s Eve I watched the ball drop over Times Square while cradling my screaming baby and being milked like a momma cow by the Most Violating Machine of all Time. The face of Ryan Seacrest will forever be associated with the sucking sound of an Ameda breast pump.

The time came when I had to choose, and I had to choose bottle feeding. I wasn’t bonding with my baby. I was being medicated for Post Partum Depression, and I needed get rid of the burden. Scotty returned the breast pump for me and that was that.

It’s been a year now, and, though we’ve drastically cut back on the number of bottles Nick consumes in a day, he is still using them. I’ve known that the day would come when the pediatrician would suggest that I stop giving Nick a bottle. The suggestion has been made, and while I understand why it’s recommended to do so at twelve months, I feel a little bit picked on. If I were breast feeding and wished to not wean yet, the doctor would fully support me. Why should it be any different with a bottle? There is still a bond formed between mother and child through bottle feeding. When else will my wild, little monster sit absolutely still in my arms and let me talk to him and cuddle him? I’m not ready to give that up yet. It’s the only thing I have left of my baby (other than he still poops in a diaper, but I’m willing to let that one go as soon as possible).

There are some things a doctor needn’t know!