I wrote this during World Breastfeeding Week, in the pockets of time when Raphy slept on me. Always on me. I’ve fed him to sleep since birth. It wasn’t really a decision, it just happened that way. He sleeps with me at night too, in our family bed, and I feed him back to sleep when he wakes. Lying face to face — or face to breast. He’s nearly eight months old and stirs a few times a night, but this way neither of us wake up fully and I’ve never felt deprived of sleep. Except in the beginning, propped up with brand new boomerang pillows, when he was so small and fragile and half-human, I couldn’t not hold him. It’s hard to remember that time. The present moment demands everything. It’s good and bad, like all things.
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Breastfeeding is a huge part of my life and a cornerstone of my relationship with Raphy but I can’t celebrate or advocate for it without acknowledging the barriers that face many people — especially Black parents, Indigenous parents, and parents of colour — who intend to feed their babies from their bodies.
Just as birth trauma is normalised, breastfeeding and bodyfeeding trauma is normalised. In Australia, over 90% of birthing parents initiate breastfeeding. Less than half are still breastfeeding exclusively by 3 months, and less than a quarter by 5 months. The World Health Organization recommends exclusive breastfeeding until 6 months, then alongside solid food up to 2 years and beyond. These statistics are worse (though not drastically) for Aboriginal mothers and birthing parents. This is the system failing parents, not parents failing their babies.
The “fed is best” narrative is obviously well-meaning but it ends up bolstering these systems and practices that leave parents behind and, often, ashamed. And the “natural” narrative isn’t any better.
Breast/bodyfeeding is hard. There’s so much shame and so much confused advice coming at parents from all angles — I felt it even though I had the privilege of midwife-led continuity of care and a “natural” birth at home.
There were beautiful moments but breastfeeding Raphy was extremely difficult, and sometimes hell, throughout the first month. Actually, it wasn’t even a month — I realised the other day it was only three weeks, which blows my mind because, at the time, it felt endless. I see this dissonance as an indication of the extreme stress and anxiety I was cycling through daily, and the never-ending nights I dreaded so much. Unless you’ve been through it you don’t know what it feels like — “never-ending nights” are mere words. It’s so strange to feel alone when you’re up all night feeding the baby while your partner sleeps beside you.
I was stressed and anxious because Raphy lost just under 10% of his body weight in the days after he was born (the high end of what’s considered normal). This on its own was not a concern, but then he lost a little more. Then he started gaining, but really slowly, and not quite enough, even though he was feeding around the clock. I was often in tears because I hadn’t left the bed or gotten off the couch for hours at a time, trying to feed a baby who never seemed satisfied. He slept only when he was too exhausted to keep feeding. He’d wake up after 20-40 minutes, sometimes less, and keep going. I struggled to leave the house. I was terrified I had a low milk supply; that I was failing my baby. Seeing me in such distress, Mum suggested formula, but I was determined to breastfeed exclusively — I wanted to do it the “natural” way.
What’s often left out of the “natural” narrative is access to support — it’s not formula or medical intervention that is unnatural, it’s being expected to birth, feed and raise babies in isolation. This narrative leaves struggling parents alone in their shame, and does nothing to address the widespread lack of access to continuous evidenced-based, trauma-informed and culturally-safe support.
My support looked like this: a midwife who cared for me through pregnancy and birth and continued visiting me at home for six weeks afterwards. A partner who had two weeks paid leave to spend at home with Raphy and me. A mother who stayed with us after that to care for us, cook for us, clean for us and look after us so all I had to do was bond with Raphy. I also had on-call support from the rest of my family and Julian’s family, as well as close friends.
Cara, our midwife, visited us every few days when Raphy was born to make sure we were thriving. She had concerns but wasn’t frantic and did her best to reassure me. She kept an eye on the scales and suggested pumping in between feeds in case the issue was a low supply, but she was perplexed. I was, too — how do you pump between feeds when there is no in-between? Raphy was on the boob all day and all night. He had no visible tongue tie and appeared to latch well. I had no nipple damage or pain. I never felt the engorgement that everyone told me about, that often (but not always) signals the arrival of mature milk. Cara suspected my milk was slow to come in.
Occasionally I saw milk spilling out of Raphy’s mouth. I can’t tell you how joyful and relieved it made me feel; I clung to those moments. It happened under the Christmas tree a few days after he was born.
I monitored his wet nappies obsessively. I got a couple of blocked ducts and felt the feverish beginnings of mastitis but held it off by massaging the sore spot in a hot shower and feeding from the affected breast more. In retrospect, all of this points to poor milk transfer, not low supply.
Pumping was hell but at least we were able to go out and buy a pump as soon as it was needed, and Mum was there most of the time to do the painful routine of washing and sterilising all the parts and bottles. Still, it was demoralising to see the measly amount of milk I got out of each pumping session. (I understand now that pumping output and milk supply are not necessarily correlated because there are just so many nuances and variables — I still don’t get much from a pump but Raphy is very well fed.) I compulsively Googled in those early days, desperate for answers, but it only exacerbated my anxiety (don’t do this). Raphy had latched beautifully, right from the beginning, but something wasn’t working. I felt like I was to blame.
Finally, on Cara’s recommendation, I booked in with a GP who had a special focus on lactation. She was trained in Possums’ Gestalt Breastfeeding approach and was working towards a lactation consultant qualification. The private appointment cost $125 (worth every cent, and much more affordable for us than a lactation consultant) and it saved my life. (Hyperbole, but that’s how it felt at the time.) It changed everything. The problem was in our positioning. Dr Eliza rolled up a cloth, wedged it under my boob and manipulated my arms like a mannequin’s while I fed Raphy in front of her. I didn’t need nipple shields, I didn’t need to pump, I didn’t need formula — I literally just needed to hold him differently. It was that simple, at least on the surface.
After that, Raphy stacked it on — anyone who got here from Insta is probably familiar with his Michelin Man rolls. It took a few more weeks to build up my confidence, and a few months until I felt really secure. It’s weird to take myself back to that time. Now, I could probably breastfeed Raphy upside down. I’m proud of us — and I want to emphasise us, because breastfeeding takes two (at least) — but the real point of this story is to make clear how vital it was that I received the support I did. Without support, I would have been traumatised, alone and ashamed, and I would have given up. To be honest, I felt all of those things at various moments even with support. Many parents are left feeling this way far too often, and it’s not right.
World Breastfeeding Week just ended. This year’s theme was Protect Breastfeeding: A Shared Responsibility. Real stories showed me the birth that could be possible for me, and gave me comfort in those fraught early days of motherhood, learning how to feed my baby. This is the story I wish I could have read then.
Here’s a list of some breast/bodyfeeding and sleep resources I’ve either referenced above or have found personally useful. (Not all of them use gender-inclusive language, apologies for that.) I recommend getting familiar with this stuff in pregnancy, unlike me (lol).
Possums’ Gestalt Breastfeeding
The Discontented Little Baby Book, Dr Pamela Douglas
Safe infant sleep and co-sleeping, Dr James McKenna
♥