After an anxiety ridden “geriatric” pregnancy (think German measles and fear mongering about the size of my baby’s head), 12 hours of active, yet unsuccessful, labour and an emergency Caesarean section, I thought (or rather hoped) that it would be smooth sailing ahead.
Little did I know, the riveting saga of Wilken, the pint-sized revolutionary who staged a one-baby protest against the bottle industry, awaited me. Move over, Gandhi – there was a new non-violent resistor in town, and he was wearing a onesie.
I always knew I wanted to try to breastfeed my baby. In hospital I had to fight for this right as a rude nurse tried to tell me that “it wasn’t working” and that I needed to give my baby “a top up with formula.” One hissy fit later, a new nurse was assigned to us and our breastfeeding journey began.
In the initial stages, I was on the phone with Alweri, a La Leche League leader, constantly. I felt overwhelmed with and steamrolled by the amount of information (and disinformation) available out there. Alweri drowned out the noise and gave the best advice on clogged ducts, cluster feeding, sore nipples, and everything in between.
After eight weeks, with the end of my maternity leave approaching, I naively thought I could introduce my bundle of joy to the wonders of bottle-feeding. Initially it went well. I pumped out lots of liquid gold and my husband felt less useless while holding a bottle to our baby’s mouth. We thought Wilken would be a champion bottle-drinker. Oh, how wrong we were!
After taking about three bottles (which I now know was more a reflex than anything else), Wilken started to refuse the bottle. From the moment that silicone nipple touched his lips, Wilken made it clear he wasn't having any of it. His face scrunched up like he'd just tasted a lemon soufflé made by a chef with no taste buds. The bottle was promptly ejected by the tiny tyrant with the force of a NASA rocket launch, nearly taking out the family cat in the process. Then he started gagging if his dad dared approach with the bottle.
We tried every trick in the book. We tried seven different brands of bottles. We warmed the bottle; we cooled the bottle. We even tried to disguise it by wrapping it in my worn shirt. Different people tried when I left the house. But Wilken remained steadfast in his mammary devotion.
Our little dairy desperado had developed a mantra: "No booby, no peace!" He'd scream the house down if anyone dared to come between him and his preferred milk dispensers. He would only take a small sip from an open cup, before raising the roof.
Wilken's dedication to the cause was admirable. He'd go on hunger strikes that would make political prisoners proud, holding out for hours until I finally gave in and whipped out the "good stuff".
When my maternity leave ended (way too soon), I dropped him off at day care. He cried. I cried. The teachers tried to assure me that he would take a bottle when mom wasn’t around. The situation reached its climax when Wilken screamed for six hours straight. No break, no sleep, no expressed milk, and most important for the little revolutionary – no bottle.
I got a frantic call from the day care to collect my baby. They have never seen such an extreme case of bottle refusal (or seeing that a cup was also refused, maybe we should call it breast demand).
I immediately called my boss to ask for permission to work from home. He agreed, but only if I could manage enough red tape to prove to HR that this was a real issue. The search for a nanny started and I started seeing experts.
I went from the paediatrician to the paediatric otorhinolaryngologist - structurally nothing is wrong. I went to a lactation consultant who referred me to an occupational therapist who referred me to a speech therapist who referred me to a physio therapist. Aside from hypermobility (which he inherited from me – I have Ehlers-Danlos syndrome), nobody could find the cause of his bottle refusal.
In the meantime I started on LLL’s course for working moms - looking back now, I should have done that much earlier. It made me feel much less alone and gave me peace of mind about my baby’s resilience.
Thankfully, all the experts wrote reports for my HR department, as did Dr Rahmat Bagus from LLL. This meant I could continue working from home until breastmilk was no longer Wilken’s primary source of nutrition.
As I write this, the standoff continues. Wilken is now one year old and remains attached to his mother like a very vocal barnacle.
I must return to work, but luckily an angel was sent straight from heaven to provide my child with the best care at home (I can’t call her a nanny, as she is so much more than that).
The next instalment of the saga of Wilken was The Purée Rebellion. Luckily, that was short lived. He now eats solids of all textures. And he drinks water from an old school Sippy cup (miracles do happen). He might even take a few sips of expressed breastmilk (but only if it is ice cold and only if his carer gives it to him and mom is nowhere near).
On a more serious note: I have so much respect for all the mothers who came before me, especially the working mothers. I am an activist for breastfeeding mothers in my workplace now and will offer all the support I can to the mothers who come after me. I am eternally grateful for the support I got from LLL on this journey.
I will always remember in the grand chess game of parenting, sometimes the baby is the grandmaster, and we are all just pawns in their milk-soaked kingdom.
The Tiny Tyrant's Milk Mutiny: A Tale of Boob vs. Bottle by Hanri Wondergem
Comentarios