Ketchup Is a Vegetable: And Other Lies Moms Tell Themselves (3 page)

“Have you been putting the lanolin on them like I showed you?” she asked snidely.

I don’t recall ever wanting to hit someone so badly in my entire life. That would be like telling the victim of a gunshot wound to put a Band-Aid on a gaping wound. Yes, Einstein, I had been using the damn lanolin. I was pretty sure my right nipple was going to fall off, and wondered if medical science had yet to invent a prosthetic nipple, or if I would have to plod through the rest of my life looking like I had attempted to nurse a grizzly bear.

Thanks to her fabulous guidance and direction I ended up with mastitis, which is a full blown infection with fever and chills. Exactly what you need when you have a newborn baby and are sleeping in one-and-a-half-hour increments.

I endured. I thought that’s what mothers were supposed to do. I cried every time I had to feed Aubrey and dreaded the next feeding in between. I said four letter words that
I
didn’t even know I knew. I was afraid she was going to develop an eating disorder because I cried every time I fed her. I had horrible daydreams of her crying through every meal for the rest of her life. I could
see
her sitting at the table, meal after meal, year after year crying while she ate. “Aubrey, honey what is wrong?” “I don’t know,” she would hiccup, “something about eating just makes me so... so sad!”

I talked about nursing with all of my family and friends who had breast fed their own babies. I kept waiting and wanting so badly for somebody to tell me it was okay to quit, but they were all so damn supportive that I felt guilty for wanting to quit.

I went to Dr. Alverson, my ob-gyn, for my six-week checkup. I knew him from working in the hospital as a nurse. He walked in the door with his assistant, slapped me on the back and said, “So, how’s the breastfeeding going?” I lost all composure. Six weeks’ worth of frustration, anger and lack of sleep came gushing out all over my poor doctor.

“OH GOD!” I cried. “It’s awful! I hate it! Both of my nipples are a bloody mess, I cry every time I have to feed her and dread the next feeding for the two hours in between!”

“Why didn’t you call me? You don’t think I know anything about boobs?” He asked.

“I went to the lactation consultant at the hospital and she told me to use lanolin. I even went to a… a… a… breastfeeding support meeting.” Which, by the by, had been a
horrible
decision on my part
.
I was uncomfortable enough sitting in the privacy of my own home, whipping out the Big Berthas every two to three hours, and trying to force Aubrey to open her mouth, stay awake
and
suck but breastfeeding
in a group
with other women just seemed perverse.

I should have realized the meeting wasn’t for me when I first read the sign:

“Breastfeeding Support Group:
Meets every Tuesday at noon in the dayroom.
Bring a sack lunch, drinks provided.”

Drinks provided? In a meeting about breastfeeding? Got milk? I should have realized then and there that this was going to be a bunch of granola eating, patchouli wearing, uber mommies. But I am a glutton for punishment, so I went to the meeting. Where I was peer pressured by the lactation consultant to breastfeed my child in front of large group of strangers. I’m sure you’ve probably seen women discreetly breastfeeding before, but when one of your breasts weighs more than your baby… it’s kind of difficult to keep things on the down low. I almost had to ask the woman sitting next to me to get up and move so I would have room to prop part of my breast up on her armrest.

“I tried Dr. Alverson! I tried to do everything I possibly could! I wanted to breastfeed. I thought my body would know how to do this! I thought my baby would know how to do this! I thought the lactation
consultant knew what she was talking about, but she made me breastfeed in front of strangers and I’m about to lose a nipple!” I hiccupped as his nurse handed me a tissue and I blew my nose.

My fabulous doctor listened to my monologue of breastfeeding woes and introduced me to a
plethora
of breastfeeding gadgets that had my boobs healed up in no time, except for the permanent scar I have on my right nipple. (Just thought I’d throw that out there, in case I ever go missing and someone needs to identify my body. I watch
Law & Order
; I know how these things work.)

My sweet mother-in-law, who nursed five babies herself, bought me a book in the midst of my troubles from the La Leche League, or the Nursing Nazis as I lovingly refer to them. I was so grateful for the book because I was obviously doing everything wrong and had no idea how to fix it. But I’m also pretty sure that I got the wrong book. I wasn’t
near
as dedicated as these people were. There was a chapter on tandem nursing. For those of you who don’t know what that is, that would be nursing your toddler and your newborn
at the same time
. (Yes, there were pictures and yes, I witnessed this in person at my Breastfeeding Support Group meeting.)

If you have the gross motor skills to unhook your mother’s nursing bra, you need to be drinking out of a cup and off the tit. These people think the breast is the answer to everything. Basically if your baby cries, that is what he wants. “Offer the breast, offer the breast, offer the breast.” I had no intention of ever being a pacifier. I’d use the “Big Berthas” to feed this kid but that was
it
. (You know you have the Big Berthas when you have to special order your bras on the Internet and your husband can wear one cup on his head like a yarmulke.)

The end of the road came shortly after that when I woke up one morning and my three-month-old had thrush. “
Hell
to the no,” I told myself, “I will not be getting another infection.” I speed dialed my doctor.

“Wade Alverson.” He answered.

“Dr. Alverson, it’s Robin O’Bryant… I woke up this morning and Aubrey has thrush in her mouth. I’ve HAD it. I refuse to get thrush. That is just disgusting. So, I quit. I’m done. What can I do to wrap this up?”

“Bind your breasts with an ACE bandage, use ice packs and cabbage leaves,” he said.

“Excuse me, cabbage leaves?” I asked skeptically. “What exactly am I supposed to do with cabbage leaves?”

“Put them in your bra and bind your breasts,” he said.

“Wade,” I used his first name so he would know I was really serious. “Don’t mess with me. Are you for real?”

“Absolutely, it works.”

Here’s the dealio, there is some sort of enzyme in the actual cabbage leaf that helps when you are engorged with milk. It works when your milk first comes in (but you are supposed to use them sparingly if you plan to breastfeed, so it doesn't affect your milk supply) and it works especially well when you have had enough and decide it’s time to wean, whenever that may be. Not only is the enzyme helpful but if you keep your cabbage in the refrigerator, the leaves are cold and just happen to be shaped the right way to fit in your brassiere.

Helpful hint: If you are especially blessed in this area, you might tell your husband to get the
biggest head of cabbage
he can find so that you don't have to put small little pieces everywhere, but can just use one large leaf per boob. If not, you will end up with what is essentially coleslaw in your bra and then you will have to pick small dried up pieces of cabbage from all over your house because they fall out of the bottom of your bra. Not that I know, I'm just saying... it seems perfectly logical that that
could
happen to someone. If say, their husband bought a head of cabbage the size of a brussel sprout.

So cabbage leaves it was, and although I spent the next seven to ten days smelling like Chinese stir-fry, I enjoyed my time with Aubrey immeasurably more after that. I still wish I had given myself permission to quit sooner, I wasted so much time hating it. I had much better experiences with my next two children. But I learned a valuable lesson: the breast isn’t best for everyone.

And although I have continued to breastfeed all three of my children for some length of time, I hate it with every fiber of my being and here are the top ten reasons why:

1. It hurts.
2. My boobs get so big that they totally eclipse my child’s head when I’m feeding her.
3. My boobs are so big that Victoria can no longer keep my Secrets.
4. No one else can help you or do it for you.
5. People give you dirty looks when you do it in public, even if you shove your kid up your shirt
and
cover up with a blanket.
6. Breast pumps make you feel like an actual cow. Mooooo.
7. My boobs are so big that I lost a pacifier once and found it that night when I took off my bra.
8. You can get tennis elbow from it, which does provide you with prescription pain killers, which you can't take
because
you’re breastfeeding.
9. You can't drink unless you want to have to buy the “breast screen” test strips at Target to screen your milk for alcohol. Purchasing said strips is only going to lead to more dirty looks. The first time I saw them I wanted to buy a box of strips, a bottle of wine, go home and pump, just to see what would happen.
10. Boob sweat is disgusting. (Think blue cheese gone bad or “rurnt” as we like to say in Alabama.) You either have to bathe or your kid is going to smell like it every time you feed her. If you are a B cup or under you can't relate and I don't care
or
feel sorry for you.

The good things about breastfeeding:

1. It's supposedly good for your kid. (Even though Aubrey was only breastfed for three months and is
never
sick and Emma was breastfed for eleven months and is
always
sick.)
2. It's free. (This is mostly why I do it… don’t judge me.)

I
’ve never thought of myself as particularly modest. I never had a humiliating experience changing clothes in the locker room for gym class. I grew up having my own bedroom and bathroom and didn’t have to duke it out with my siblings over a lack of privacy — unlike my husband who shared a bathroom with his four siblings
and
his parents. It’s still not uncommon for someone to walk in the door and take a quick potty break when you are in the shower at his parents’ house. It’s how he was raised and even though I was raised differently I felt I adjusted quite well to life as an O’Bryant. I didn’t mind if someone came in the bathroom to pee while I was in shower, providing they didn’t peek behind the shower curtain, flush the toilet or actually take care of more serious bathroom business.

I worked my way through college as a tech in Labor and Delivery. I assisted with C-sections and post-partum tubals, set up trays of instruments for vaginal deliveries and saw a lot of babies being born. It was a beautiful thing and every delivery made me look forward to having my own children and consider what type of experience I would want for the birth of my first child.

Would I want a natural delivery with scented candles and my husband massaging my back? Mmmm, tempting — but no. An epidural and Gin Rummy sounded like a much better birth plan for me.

Would I want my mother, my sister, my father, my husband, my mother-in-law and my high-school youth group leader all holding my hand and chanting together, “PUSH, Robin, PUSH!” Again, tempting but no. My husband and I made this baby all by ourselves, and that was the way we wanted to bring her into the world.

Because I worked in Labor and Delivery for a couple of years, I knew and worked with
all
of the ob-gyns in town. All of them. I chose my doctor very carefully, and made it clear to the receptionist at his office that I would not be making rounds at their office showing my lady bits to anyone and everyone there. I would see my doctor and my doctor only for appointments, but would be fine delivering with whoever was on-call when I went into labor. I had to look these people in the eye on a daily basis — in the operating room no less, and I just didn’t think they all needed to see my Britney.

Our extended family lived about three hours away from Zeb and I at the time and my plan was to call them from the hospital after I got settled in but
right
before I had the baby. Because you know, things like delivering your first child are so predictable. The plan was that I would get my epidural, kick my husband’s butt at Gin Rummy (like I
always
do), have a baby and possibly a snack and be ready to greet my family when they arrived. I was not going to be one of those people who had ten people standing around their bed staring at them while they just laid there and prayed for cervical dilation.

Nope, not this girl. No,
this girl
ended up with eleven people standing around staring at her. Turns out labor can take a really long time — like long enough for eleven of your closest family members to drive three hours.

My brother commented while staring at the fat girl in the bed, “You seem so calm and peaceful.”