Babymaking, the Final Frontier

From the moment we begin to even ponder the idea of sex, we are typically perpetually plagued by one overwhelming, overriding fear: pregnancy.
 
We are constantly reminded: It only takes one time. And there are certainly enough after-school specials to prove it. OK, wait, I dated myself there. There are enough episodes of Teen Mom to prove it.
 
We spend much of our teenage years and, often, early 20s or well beyond, terrified that we might get pregnant. In college, I had a friend who was worried she might be pregnant because she had fooled around with her boyfriend in a hot tub. (Um, yeah, sperm may be good swimmers, but they're not Ryan Lochte, sweetie.) In high school, one of my friends and her boyfriend would run water through their condoms just to make sure there were no holes.
 
I had another friend who was so worried about getting pregnant that she and her husband used condoms even though she was on the pill. After all, as the ubiquitous "they" always remind us, abstinence is the only 100% effective birth control.
 
And then, one day, we decide, we're ready. Unbatten the hatches. Pull the goalie. Take off the helmet. It's babymaking time.
 
We plan it all out. Let's get pregnant during "x" month and then we can have the baby during "y" month and that will work well because of "x" "y" and "z." No problem. Just a little quick math, subtract 40 weeks, and boom, let the fun begin.
 
For some, it is that easy. For many, it's anything but. For all those countless cautionary tales, the harsh reality is that getting pregnant is very, very hard, and sometimes the process is anything but fun.
 
Every month, there is a very tiny window during which a woman can get pregnant. Once a woman ovulates, her egg survives for only maybe two days. A sperm can survive two to three.
 
Timing is everything. So we buy basal thermometers and keep temperature charts to try and determine when we typically ovulate each month. (Your temp spikes after ovulation.) We buy ovulation predictor kits, some of which cost upwards of $30! (And some of which don’t sell refill strips, forcing you to shell out another $30 even though you already have a strip reader. Bastards.)
 
For me, predictor kits never worked, so I had the privilege of having blood drawn by my doctor every day to try and determine when I ovulated.
 
We even go so far as to (TMI alert!) check our cervical mucus, as it tends to get thinner as we near ovulation and then get thicker as we near menstruation. Oh yeah, let me tell you, there’s no greater turn on than telling your partner, “Hey honey, can you see if my cervical mucus is the consistency of egg whites yet?” Meeeeeeeeow.
 
But here’s the rub. Even if you time it perfectly, you still only have about a 25% chance that the sperm will fertilize the egg. And that’s for a perfectly healthy young couple with absolutely no issues who is actively attempting to conceive and times it perfectly. For someone who is just regularly sexually active, the number drops to 11%.
 
And for those over 30 or with any fertility issues whatsoever, the number tends to be just as disheartening.
 
Once upon a time, my greatest fear was glancing down at a pee stick and seeing a positive sign. As my husband and my quest for a baby began stretching on long past our planned baby dates, my ongoing waking nightmare was just the opposite, endless negative signs and/or waking up to find my dreaded “friend” had arrived.
 
After about nine months or so of actively trying and becoming increasingly discouraged, we sought out a fertility specialist. Babymaking had officially shifted from the bedroom to the examination room, and the fun had gone clinical.
 
First it was testing. Extensive bloodwork for both. Semen analysis for my husband. An HSG, which is a really fun procedure that involves pushing dye through your fallopian tubes to make sure everything’s flowing as it should. A polypectomy, after an ultrasound revealed a couple polyps that could, possibly, maybe be getting in the way.
 
Throughout, I secretly wished they would find something wrong with at least one of us. At least then we’d know what was wrong, and maybe we could fix it. But all we got was a frustratingly ambiguous diagnosis of unexplained infertility.
 
Next began the treatments. My endocrinologist suggested trying metformin, as he thought maybe I was demonstrating some signs of very mild polycystic ovary syndrome (PCOS), though I had no ovarian cysts. Fun side effects included a few weeks of cramps and becoming close with my toilet as my stomach adjusted to the medicine.
 
Then came our attempts at IUI, intrauterine insemination, or basically a turkey baster approach with supercharged semen, scrubbed of all impurities and lazy swimmers, coupled with clomid, or basically speed for your ovaries, forcing them to churn out a few extra eggs.
 
Each month, we hoped anew, but each month, that hope became more and more difficult to muster and the results more and more heartwrenching. I couldn’t help but perseverate on one thought: What was wrong with me? I was convinced it was my fault, and I simultaneously loathed and pitied myself for it.
 
Each failure made it more and more difficult to appreciate others’ successes. A friend told me she and her husband were starting to conceive. The next month, they celebrated. My brother and sister-in-law announced the impending arrival of their second. I congratulated them and ran to the other room and sobbed.
 
I couldn’t help it. Rationally, I could appreciate their happiness, but I just couldn’t truly be happy for them. I was too jealous, too frustrated, too angry, too mired in self-pity. Why would God make this so difficult for us? I knew that we would be wonderfully loving and giving parents, how could he make this seem like such an impossibility?
 
After two rounds of IUI, we opted for IVF, and in this, I feel incredibly blessed. One, that science has evolved such that these processes are available. Two, that my job afforded me insurance that would pay for almost all of what is an incredibly expensive procedure.
 
The process itself certainly takes a lot of the fun out of creating a baby. First, there’s the two-and-a-half hour lecture/Q&A and the three-hour class that provides all of the how-to’s of IVF. Then there are the initial daily shots in the abdomen, on some days both in the morning and afternoon.
 
Next, the surgical procedure to retrieve the eggs and the transfer a few days later, provided there are positive results with the retrieval and fertilization. Then, the really fun shots begin, the daily doses of progesterone suspended in nice, thick oil, administered slowly with a syringe with a lengthy needle.
 
In truth, the whole process actually wasn’t all that bad. I didn’t react to any of the medications, and a little ice on my tushie helped with the progesterone shots. Plus, I earned one of my more colorful nicknames: Auntie Bum-Bum.
 
My husband was in India for the first two weeks of my progesterone shots, which you can’t administer yourself, so my brother and sister-in-law were stuck sticking me. They would also redraw the circles on my butt that indicated where to stick, though my brother sometimes took the term circle a bit liberally and got a bit, um, creative. My nephew was fascinated by the circles and thereby dubbed me, for quite a few months to come, Auntie Bum-Bum.
 
I was also blessed in that I worked with the UConn Center for Reproductive Services. For anyone seeking out help, I cannot say enough wonderful things about Dr. Engmann or any of the staff at the Hartford or Farmington offices. Beyond being skilled, they are genuinely caring and empathetic.
 
It also helps to know that we’re far from alone in our experiences. Countless friends and acquaintances have struggled in much the same way and have shared their stories. Many also conceived through IVF, and many with the same doctors.
 
There are times when I’m a little saddened that I’ll never experience that classic TV show moment where the couple huddles expectantly over the pee stick and suddenly erupts into tears of joy after seeing the positive sign slowly appear or that our conception story is not exactly romantic.
 
But more than anything, I am incredibly thankful. Our story is one of trials and tribulations, but ultimately one of triumph and love. Our heartache and frustration were temporary, and for that I feel blessed. I know that not everyone is so lucky. My heart goes out to those individuals, and I hope that they are able to build their families through other means. Everyone deserves the opportunity to experience the overwhelming emotion of being called “Mom” or “Dad.”

Pregnancy: Invasion of the Body Snatcher(s)

Celebrity magazines are rife with famous fashion plates gushing about how incredible they felt during their pregnancies and how much they enjoy being pregnant; with stories reveling in how these moms can manage to do it all, to act, run an independent film company, to design her own fashion line for wonderfully overdressed toddlers, to serve on UN councils and visit third-world countries; with photos of how so-and-so has lost the baby weight and you can, too.

To all of them, I call bullshit. A little reality check.

First, these moms can do it all because they have the financial means to hire a gazillion nannies. Seriously, I think the Jolie-Pitts have about a gazillion nannies since they have one for each kid. They also have professionals who clean their homes, personal chefs or delivery food services, personal assistants, fashion consultants, you name it. Think how productive YOU could be if you had a small nation working for you.

Second, there's a reason they have their bikini bods back so quickly. Actually, there are many reasons. They can afford to have someone prepare unbelievably complex, healthy meals for them on a daily basis, while I'm happy to get at least one "cooking day" a week, where I attempt to make as many meals during naptime as possible to last us the rest of the week. They also have personal trainers and nannies to watch their babes while they workout, while I try to squeeze in a workout at the ass-crack of dawn before my husband has to get ready for work.

But the coup-de-gras ... they have plastic surgery. As a mom of twins, let me just tell you, there's no way all those celeb twin mommies out there got those flat tummies from diet and exercise alone. Pregnancy wreaks havoc on your abs and skin is only so elastic, especially for those of us over 30.

But my loudest bullshit echoes for those that gush about how amazing they felt throughout their pregnancies. Because let's be honest, in a lot of ways, pregnancy kind of sucks.

Don't get me wrong. Pregnancy is an incredible experience. I'm still floored by the fact that my body could grow not just one but two beautiful creatures, complete with minute replicas of all of my husband's and my parts. That my body could provide all the sustenance they would need to bake for 38.5 weeks and even most of what they would need for their first six months in the outside world. That my innards could move aside to make room for 16 pounds of kids and return to (I hope) their normal positions.

I will forever remember what it felt like to feel them move and shift inside me, a surreal and overwhelmingly vital sensation. At first, it would just be little jabs and nudges, alerting me to their presences. Later, it was entire limbs protruding and undulating Aliens-style across my midsection. I would chuckle each time Big Boy surreptitiously mooned the world, which was often.

However, for as wondrous and life-changing as the experience is, I think most women would tell you that most of the time, they felt oh-so-far from amazing.

But don't worry. I'm not looking to make this entry a bitch-fest. Rather, I thought I'd offer a little practical advice for the travails ahead.

1. Buy a Body Pillow

Something I never knew about pregnancy until I actually got pregnant: your bones actually become softer and more pliable, which makes sense since they need to accommodate a rather large object. So, what do you get when combine looser joints, softer bones, and an ever-growing midsection? Cranky joints that will send you fiery missives when you've lay on them too long and make sleep nearly impossible.

By the time I was dwarfing Moby Dick, I would get stabbing pains in my hip after sleeping on my side. I'd switch to the other side, but on that side, my stomach put a lot more pressure on my back and soon that hip would become equally sore anyway. And thus began my endless bedtime mambo, shifting my hips back and forth in time with my hip pains. Until I found my savior ... my body pillow.

I heartily recommend the full length ones that are shaped like a comma and provide both a pillow to put between your knees as well as belly support. Without it, I don't know that I would've slept more than an hour at a time during the final months.


2. Eat Frequently

OK, don't hate me, but I was lucky. I never experienced morning sickness. I had times when very little appealed to me and, in general, I couldn't stand the smell of cooking, but I never got sick. I know, I know, I suck. I actually felt quite guilty because some of my friends had been very sick, in some instances, out of work for long stretches of time sick or throw up on yourself in your car and have to drive home for a second shower and outfit sick.

But I do know that with many of my friends (not all but many), there was a common theme: empty stomach equals roiling intestines. (I found the same was true of heartburn: empty stomach always seemed to fan the flames.) Some of my friends would keep a stash of food in their purses or desks at work, etc. Others would eat little snacks in the middle of the night. Come on. Who really needs another excuse to eat something tasty?

3. Remember That Supplements Are Your Friends

More than one friend has referred to her oven bun as a parasite, and while this may sound appalling to some, the reality is that it's an accurate description. Your baby is literally sucking the life out of you. And in this case, literally is literally accurate. Whatever you eat goes directly to baby, and whatever her or his umbilical cord hasn't sucked out of what you've ingested eventually goes to you.

Thus, those vitamins you start taking early on aren't just for the baby, they're for you. In some cases, if your body is a bit low on those nutrients, you will begin feeling low yourself. This is especially true of iron. I'm not much of a meat eater, so early on, I became anemic, and my doctor recommended a daily dose of iron supplements, a dose that increased as time went on.

Now, be prepared. Pregnancy can already make you long for the days that you made fun of ExLax commercials. Add iron supplements to the mix and you can be bound up better than little Ralphie in his snowsuit. And when you do finally poop, don't worry if it looks as if you've eaten nothing but spinach for weeks. Green, in fact, is the new brown. (Sorry, too much? I think parenthood has officially dislodged my filter.)

While some are hesitant to dose up on iron because of the tummy issues, I can tell you that it's worth it. My energy level definitely dipped significantly if I let myself get too low.

4. Buy Antacids in Bulk

For me, the worst part of pregnancy was probably the heartburn. As your baby gets bigger, her body will further invade that space near your esophagus, leaving food very little room to move. (Side note, I'm still fascinated that my innards and my monster babies could all fit in that one small space.) 

I stashed antacids everywhere. (Metaphorically this time, not literally.) On my nightstand. In the kitchen cupboards. In the car. In my desk at work. In my purse. Too, as I mentioned before, try not to let yourself get too hungry. I found that once my tank neared empty, my pyloric sphincter would become increasingly fidgety.

5. Be Sure to Have an Air Conditioner

What, you say? You're always cold. Yeah, not anymore.

Trust me, I was that person. I slept in fleece. I once kept my house at a balmy 71. I hated air conditioning. But the more pregnant I got, the more likely even a warm breeze would make me feel like some horrible combination of a sweat-drenched pubescent boy and a hot flashy future menopause me.

My babies were born in August, so I also had the fun privilege of enduring the final trimester in full-on summer heat. Though, even 80-plus-degree days would have me cranking the AC. I simply had zero tolerance for heat. Simply, I think if we hadn't had central air, my husband would've eventually found a puddle in the living room surrounded by stretchy pants, the TV remote and Big Y fish and chips. (This was my one craving. This fish guys actually came to know me by name.)

6. Have Your Husband Rub Your Cankles

Now ladies, you know you deserve some pampering anyway, but here's proof that it's completely essential. Let me first say that I am blessed. My husband is one of the most sensitive, attentive, and caring men you could ever meet. When my ankles started to get a little swollen and sore, especially after standing on my feet all day in the classroom, he offered to rub them ... every night. I mean, who's going to turn that down?

We didn't realize, though, how helpful this was until he was away in India for two-plus weeks for my brother-in-law's wedding. In the weeks he was away, I noticed my ankles gradually becoming cankles. Balloons may be fun, but not so much on top of your already taxed feet.

As soon as he returned, he diligently returned to his nightly ministrations, and my ankles quickly made a reappearance. I truly believe that his labor of love helped I avoid hard-core edema.

Besides, what else does your hubby need to do for the next 40 weeks? ;)

7. Practice Self-Acceptance and Do Something For Yourself

Here's the hard truth, it's easy not to feel good about yourself when you're pregnant. You will see numbers on the scale you never saw even in your worst nightmares. You will live in stretchy clothes for a large chunk of your pregnancy and beyond. (Thankfully, maternity fashion has come a long way.) You will have likely have poop issues, be it constipation or diarrhea or green poop or something else. You will probably be extra gassy and may not have the muscle tone any more to control that gassiness. You may feel sick often or feel as if you spend more time in the toilet than out of it.

Just remind yourself, it's temporary. For now, your body is not your own. It has been commandeered by a creature far more demanding and, in the end, far cuter than you are. And the end result will be worth it.

Take some time to do something for yourself. Get a massage. Have a spa day. Enjoy a wonderfully decadent multi-course meal. Buy a special outfit. Take yourself out for a sappy movie. Do something that is truly indulgent.

Finally, make an effort to make yourself look good. For whatever reason, that's always seemed to help. If I dress nicely, do my hair, put on some makeup, I immediately feel better. Besides, enjoy it now. Once the rugrat(s) is (are) here, personal care and beauty kind of goes out the window for a while.

8. Don't Break the Bank on Maternity Wear

Retailers are evil. We all know how much designers and stores mark up the products, but they really go buckwild when it comes to specialty markets. There are limited places to find maternity wear, so they know they've got you. It's not as if you can avoid buying maternity clothes unless you opt for the gunnysack look, and you know what, by the end of my pregnancy, I think even a gunny sack would've been a tight fit. Hell, I think a big top may have been a tight fit.

For the previously or currently pregnant, how many of you have shopped Pea in the Pod? Seriously, you want me to spend $45 for a plain, black, scoop-necked tee? Are you effing kidding me? I know a maternity shirt needs a little more fabric, but give me a break. I was just looking at their web site. BIG SALE, they advertise. Spend $200, get 15% off. Gee, thanks.

I know. They DO have cute stuff. And I know I just said try to make yourself look good. Just remember, you are only going to wear these clothes for a few months, and then maybe a few more months if you get pregnant again. Just think about how much you're paying per wear!

Some money savers? First, shop the consignment sales. Again, most maternity wear is only worn for a few months, so a lot of used stuff is in good shape. Second, trade with friends. A few of my friends have passed around the same clothes for quite a few pregnancies. Third, check out Kohl's, Penney's and Macy's. Kohl's has a decent section, and if you can shop sales and have a coupon, the prices end up being very reasonable. Kohl's was generally my go-to place for maternity. Penney's and Macy's generally have small maternity sections as well. Penney's was pretty cheap right off the bat. At Macy's, look for the sales. While there were certainly plenty of pricey apparel, I bought a lot of work clothes for reasonable prices.

9. Make Sure You LOVE Your Doctors

Because you will see them a lot. A lot a lot. This is especially true if you're a mom of multiples.

There are monthly check-ups and then bi-monthly check-ups as you get closer to your due date. There are ultrasounds. There are various prenatal screenings. There are non-stress tests. If you're going to spend all this time with these people, you might as well make sure that that time is pleasantly spent.

As a mom of multiples, in addition to monthly check-ups, I had monthly ultrasounds and, toward the end, weekly non-stress tests. I was lucky. My doctors were all fantastic. Shout out to Woodland Women's in Glastonbury!

10. Remember That Getting Your Pre-Baby Body Takes Time and May Never Happen

I know that last part is a tough pill to swallow, but it is a reality. Your body is going to undergo major trauma. It is going to stretch more than you thought humanly possible. You will be exhausted and you may not be able to be as active as you once were. You may get large enough that just lugging your relentlessly expanding cargo cabin up the stairs may require a rest period and bottle of water.

Even once the baby(ies) is (are) out, you first have a lot of extra blood and fluids that need to make their way out of your system before you get to the belly fat. Considering that you're not likely to be sleeping much at night, probably a lot of that possible exercise time will be spent sleeping or, if you're lucky, showering. Healthy meals? I was happy if I had time to put together any level of sustenance. Your world will have a new center, and it's likely you won't have the time or desire to put a lot of thought or effort into self-betterment.

Even once you do start to come out of the initial sleep-deprived infant-stage haze and make that vow to get back into all of your pre-pregnancy clothes, you may find that your body is just, well, different. I've been diligently setting my alarm for 5 a.m. to hit the gym before my husband leaves for work, but even months later, my belly still looks like a cross between Santa Claus three quarters of the way through The Biggest Loser and a pack of bulldog jowls and I'm still buying pants in the next size up.

However, for every time I look in the mirror and sigh, I can scan the room and watch my two perfect monsters playing peek-a-boo around the couch and nearly collapsing in giggles, or observe their looks of concentrated fascination as they put spoons in a bottle and take them out again, or see them lean down to give dog a kiss -- before trying to mount and ride her. And I remind myself that for what I may have lost and never get back, I've received infinite love for the two most beautiful parts of my life.

Booby Prize: Breastfeeding Can Be a Pain

A Brief Introduction ...
Eighteen months ago, I joined an ancient, time-honored, and exhausted clan. I became a parent. And not just any parent. I became a parent to twins, a pair of beautiful boys. I wasn't naive. I certainly knew my life would never be the same and that no book or site could possibly prepare me for what was to come, but that didn't stop me from buying a couple of books about pregnancy and my babies' first year, reading countless sites devoted to various parenting minutia and consulting as many friends and family members with kids as possible. Don't get me wrong, many of those sources were rich with helpful tidbits. But I've realized that my research contained some significant gaps, particularly when it came to some of the um, let's say less glamorous aspects of parenting. Hence, this blog. I come from a long line of very proudly blunt and open individuals and hope that my candor might help you in your preparations, or at least make you laugh in camaraderie. These entries are in no particular order in terms of timing or importance, just what happens to strike my memory strongest on a particular day.

Booby Prize: Breastfeeding Can Be a Pain

OK, before anyone gets offended or starts spouting statistics, let me begin with a brief disclaimer. Breastfeeding is absolutely the ideal way to provide nutrients and antibodies. (Hell, I pumped for eight months ... EIGHT MONTHS! ... just to ensure those benefits for my boys.) And for many, it's an intense bonding experience. This post is not intended to be an affront to any mom out there who is ready, willing and able to breastfeed. To those moms, power to you.

Rather, this post is intended to channel a little Sean Maguire/Robin Williams to those moms out there for whom breastfeeding proved to be an incredibly frustrating, painful and, in some cases, impossible experience. To them I say, "It's not your fault." (To those moms younger than 30, you may need to Google that reference.)

Twins or not, I was determined to breastfeed. I read the books. I bought my oversized, ridiculously expensive strap-on breastfeeding pillow, complete with storage for your electronics or other small items in the event that you grow a third limb to hold them. My husband and I attended the breastfeeding class at St. Francis. I saw all the videos that showed how easy it was. Just squeeze the boob this way, pop your kid on this way, and poof, perfect latch, easy feeding and no pain. Got it. No problem. Besides, this is all nature anyway, right? I mean, humans have been doing this for eons.

Riiiiiiiiight. Turns out, breastfeeding may be natural, but it's really freaking hard, or at least it was for me. And if you're a driven, type A perfectionist, it can make you feel like the biggest failure in parentland.

First, my milk took five days to come in, which may not sound like a lot to some, but to two very hungry little boys, especially one who had apparently been downing Mommy nutrients like it was his job, it was. One of my twins was 9 lbs., 5 oz. No, seriously, this is not a typo. The doctor said his umbilical cord looked like a massive straw. The doctors had said the boys would probably sleep most of the first 24 hours and not look to be fed much. Yeah, or Big Boy would look to be fed non-stop and wonder why his trusty straw had been replaced this stupid round thing that was so hard to get a grip on and gave so little for so much effort. So rather than sleep, he screamed.

Second, latching was a bitch. I remember seeing this video that talked about how all I needed to do was go topless, let him crawl around on my chest, and voila, he'd attach himself. He could sniff the good stuff out like a hunting dog. (Insert sarcastic snort here.) Neither Big Boy nor I could seem to figure out how to get him to latch without a professional. Dimples meanwhile came to be known as Sharkie, as he would frantically attack my breast with gums that seemed to clamp like a vise. And yet, for all that fervor, minutes later, he'd be asleep before taking more than a few sips.

And it didn't get much better once we left the hospital. We should've gotten a stamp card for the lactation consultant. Five consultations and the next one's free. With the lactation consultant there to help, we could eventually make it work. Once home, it was a different story, one that typically ended up with me and the boys crying in frustration, and me wracked with guilt, first because I couldn't give them what they needed and second because I would get so frustrated with them and myself at our failures. It was hard for me to accept that this wasn't working. I have always been one that believed that to accomplish what I wanted, I just needed to try hard enough. Except in this case, that tenacity is actually counterproductive. (On a side note, a shout out to our lactation consultant. She was AMAZING! So patient. So positive. So reassuring. She truly helped keep me sane.)

Eventually, we did get better. My lactation consultant helped me find the right boob grip. For all the struggling breastfeeders out there, I'm telling you, it's all about the hamburger grip, especially if you have somewhat non-perky nips, which apparently I do, and the booby massage. Squeeze the boob as you would a hamburger, get your babe to take a good bite of the burger, and massage that milk right out. (Any guys still reading right now are both thanking god they're not women and cursing themselves for still reading. I warn you boys, serious TMI upcoming.)

Turns out, the latching issue, though, was just the beginning. Not surprisingly, as a mom of twins, I quickly became an overproducer. Turned out, I also had a letdown that was like a powerwasher on steroids. And so just as the boys got adept at latching on, I drowned them.

The poor things became unwitting victims in a lactation horror film. The camera pans across the room. A young mother cradles her small infant, coaxing him to nestle in. Zoom in aaaaaand letdown. The infant's eyes spring open with fear. He throws his head back, choking and gasping. He desperately tries to avoid the milky geyser that's relentlessly dousing his face. The mother searches for something, anything to quell the milky onslaught. End scene.

I searched for an answer. Express a little milk beforehand. Lay on your back. Keep the baby's head as elevated as possible. Yeah, didn't matter. Gravity could only take the edge off, and amazingly, my fourth letdown was just as powerful as the first. Poor Big Boy actually got to the point that he would cringe if I tried to put him near my boobs, especially my roboboob. (My right boob was like a machine when it came to production.)

To add to the fun, I found that I started having intense pain during and after breastfeeding, shooting pain that would extend out to my back and shoulders. I also noticed that my nipples would alternate between Robert Pattinson pale and Barney purple. Another call to the lactation consultant, and welcome to the world of vasospasms. Turns out some lucky people don't have the best boob circulation. When the boys would breastfeed, they would basically ended up cutting off blood flow to my boobs, and it would take a good 20 minutes or so before it would come back. In the meantime, it would go in and out. Pale, no blood flow. Purple, blood flow.

Just to really make the beginning of my experience memorable, though, I ended up with bout 1 of mastitis. Ladies, if I can give you one piece of advice, it's invest in a very large tube of nipple cream and keep some bacitracin and hydrocortisone on hand for good measure. I'm sure most moms who've at least attempted to breastfeed have ended up with nipples that resemble the San Adreas Fault at some point. Well, beware. Not only are those pesky crevices painful, they're also a perfect entryway for bacteria.

I wondered why my left breast suddenly seemed to be doing its best Strawberry Shortcake impression while serving as its own hot compress. And really, a fever and the flu during Indian Summer?  No flu. Just mastitis, which can make you feel as if you have the flu and as if your breast just participated in a very unsuccessful bid for a Greco-Roman wrestling title.

And so, I finally came to realize the inevitable truth of my situation. For all my dedication, for all my good intentions, for all my efforts, it was just not going to work. I was relieved at my realization but also disappointed. I questioned myself. Was I giving in too quickly? Why didn't it work for me?

I opted instead to pump as much as I could and supplement where needed with formula. I was lucky. My boobs didn't just overproduce, they hyperproduced. I looked up online to see what the average woman typically pumps in a 15-minute session: 1-3 ounces. I could pump that in barely a minute, sometimes less. At the height of my pumping, I could fill two 8-oz bottles to the tip top, meaning sometimes more than 20 oz of milk. Insane! (Another side note, for all of you who pump, a hands-free bustier is a must!)

Granted, this did make weaning pretty interesting. Enter mastitis bout 2. Note to self, it's not a good idea to really push yourself to see how long you can go and how much pain and discomfort you can tolerate if you're producing that much milk. Big mistake. Big. Huge. (Yet another side note, refrigerated cabbage leaves on the boobs really do help and are actually pretty soothing.)

Almost a year later, and my boys are healthy and happy, and we've bonded in so many other ways. The takeaway here is simple. If it doesn't work, it's OK.

For some, breastfeeding might come easily. For others, it will be a struggle of days, weeks, sometimes months. And for others, it's just an impossibility. It doesn't make you any less of a mom or doom your child to nutritional deficiencies and a lifetime of allergies and immunological struggles.

Like so many other things, it just is what it is.

As the serenity prayer so aptly encourages, God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.