Breastfeeding, formula and damned statistics

I read a headline the other day that made me happy.

Annoyingly I couldn’t let it go there so I had to delve a bit deeper, and now I’m a lot less happy. There’s a moral in there somewhere.

Anyway. The headline was:

“When breast ISN’T best: Feeding babies formula and breast milk immediately after birth can help mothers breastfeed for longer“

At bloody last, I thought. A story about formula that doesn’t describe it as the spawn of Satan.

In fact, one could almost argue that, despite in this case formula being a means to an end which still very much involves breasts, it is *almost* a positive story, for a change. Something that doesn’t make us ladies who couldn’t breastfeed feel like complete shit, anyway.

The piece is based on an interesting study carried out by the University of California, which found that newborn babies who received small amounts of formula in the first few days, before their mothers’ milk “came in”, were more likely to then be breastfed for longer.

“Many mothers develop concerns about their milk supply, which is the most common reason they stop breastfeeding in the first three months,” said assistant professor Valerie Flaherman, who led the research, in the press release.

“But this study suggests that giving those babies a little early formula may ease those concerns and enable them to feel confident continuing to breastfeed.”

Yeah, that figures, I thought. And more importantly it’s one in the eye for the charming midwife who told me I’d “ruined” my son’s stomach lining by giving him formula in the first 2 days, following an impromptu trip to ICU because he genuinely wasn’t getting enough to eat.

The one big fucking elephant in the room is that the trial only looked at 40 babies.

Forty.

Four-oh.

Of those, around half got the mixed feed. So that’s 20 babies, in the entire world, determining this result.

I am literally banging my fists on the table here (it hurts) because I really, really want this to be significantly good news, and I don’t want to be rude about scientists because I’m not one so what do I know, but even I can’t gloss over the fact that this is a miniscule, piddling, itsywitsyteenyweenily microscopic study group.

This morning I took my toddler to a singing group at the local library. There were more babies shaking their rattles there than there were in this research.

Does this mean I can scientifically claim that 21st century babies prefer Wheels on the Bus to Twinkle Little Star? I’d definitely like to. But deep down I know that it’s not really going to cut the mustard (and besides, I forgot to factor in Galumph Went the Little Green Frog. Which is an actual song. Seriously).

The researchers kinda know it too. Another one, Thomas Newman, said it will be interesting to see whether the results still hold “ in future, larger studies and in other populations”.

So, um, perhaps a bit premature for the press release then? Sigh.

“one midwife told me that formula milk had one ingredient which was actually an animal’s sperm”

Hannah emailed me a couple of weeks ago. Her story is an absolutely classic case of the huge difference in pregnancy/postnatal care that new mums have to deal with… (I still can’t get over the animal sperm comment)

 

HANNAH’S STORY

My son is now three and a half and a joy. I love being a mother – balancing a career and home life is a challenge but nothing compared to how it felt to becoming a new mum!

December 2009 I was induced on my due date as my blood pressure was high.

Daniel arrived by emergency C Section 24 hours later weighing 10lb 15oz – a bouncer.

The birth was a nightmare. Nothing prepared me for it.

Being the busy Christmas period at the hospital I felt I was being rushed through as they wanted to get home for the holidays.

I had decided to breastfeed after hearing about the benefits it would have and one midwife telling me that formula milk had one ingredient which was actually an animal’s sperm!

After a traumatic labour, the fact I couldn’t feel my legs after the operation and Daniel being so big it was difficult to position him to feed.  He wouldn’t take from me and I was confused.

Midwives came and went and each gave different advice. I remember one midwife being great, a lady from New Zealand who helped me keep focus.

Others weren’t so patient and I was left with a screaming hungry baby at times.

I needed my husband by my side, just to let me sleep if anything, but we were told he could only visit during visiting time.

I cried and felt hopeless. I wanted to be back home for Christmas Day too so I tried my hardest to cover up and show how well I was doing so I could be discharged.

After a successful feed I was allowed to leave which I did in the middle of heavy snow.

Home safe I relaxed until the next feeding time.

I couldn’t get him to latch.

I didn’t want to go back into the hospital so I didn’t want to contact the midwife – I just tried and tried to get him to feed.

After more tears and stress my husband made the decision to buy formula. We hadn’t thought of buying it before that point as I had expected to be able to feed straight away – everyone made out how natural it would be and it would be like second nature.

I remember staring out of the front window of our home with a screaming baby, watching the snow coming down and waiting for hubby  to come home.  He arrived with every pre-mixed formula on the market and bottles and sterilisers.

An hour later Daniel was asleep again and I was still awake crying, feeling like a total failure.

The following morning my usual midwife was on Christmas leave so a covering midwife came to the house on my husband’s instruction.

She said that I should feed him with formula, he’d be too big to feed with breast milk and that  I’d never keep up with him.

She then changed the subject, asked to see my c section scar and went on to tell me how I would always now have an overhang on my belly and how to clean the scar!

I was more determined than ever to breastfeed and even though I was told that once he’d had a bottle my milk would stop and he wouldn’t latch, this wasn’t the case.

The health visitor I had was my saving grace. She sat with me for an hour and helped me feed and sat with me while Daniel fed to see how long he went on for.  She told me to try feeding him whilst lying down and relaxing.

That evening I lay Dan beside me on the bed and he wriggled up and snuggled in for a good feed.  I was elated, I had done it.

For the next week that’s how I fed, lying down next to him on the bed and some days that’s all I could do was lay next to him.  Eventually I cracked the sitting up position after I had visions of me and Dan lying down in Ikea in times to come.

I managed to feed Daniel with a combination of bottle and breast for 9 months and I felt that was a huge achievement.

It hasn’t done him any harm.  We have a strong bond that has grown over time.

The further I get from the experience the less vivid the memories obviously but when expectant mothers ask me about my experience I tell them that “it’s all worth it”.

I have returned to the same hospital recently  following a miscarriage and found their aftercare was so much better than it had been after my son’s birth. Even though that visit was equally as stressful it’s not put me off trying again.

Read more stories in Birth, Boobs and Bad Advice – the book!

Why I don’t write “suggested” blog posts

In the last couple of weeks I’ve received a few emails asking me to write about various subjects on here so I just wanted to set the record straight.

I don’t do that.

My blog, my rules, I’m afraid.

For starters, it’s quite a specific blog. It’s not about kung fu or the art of topiary – it’s about women who get a hard time when breastfeeding doesn’t work out for them.

It’s their stories, told in their words, plus the occasional topical interlude from me. I launched the blog to accompany my book, because I just keep on hearing from women who struggled and were bullied, and I wanted to give them a voice too.

That’s it.

If you’re after something else, you’re in the wrong place, and if you want me to write about something else…. I won’t.

Sometimes I admit it’s not easy to stick to this particular resolution. Especially when people ask nicely.

The charity stuff is kind of hard to turn down. When someone asked me recently to write about meningitis, I wobbled. Terrible illness, serious subject. Surely the very least I can do is scribble a few words about it?

But ultimately it has absolutely nothing to do with what happens in this particular nook of the net.

So I politely declined.

I am less polite when invited to write something in exchange for a “free” iPad or whatnot. Even if it’s part of a competition. Actually if anything that is even worse – encouraging people to compete for the “best” (which I assume means most favourable) review seems pretty low to me.

At work, that sort of thing is a sackable offence so perhaps I’m pre-conditioned to run a mile from anyone who wants to put words in my mouth. If you think that sounds horribly pompous, imagine how annoyed I get with myself that I do all this and still have to buy all my own sodding gadgets.

But fork out I do because I continue to genuinely, irritatingly, believe my integrity is worth more. Dammit.

I can’t speak for all bloggers, of course. This blog is a personal project and not my source of income, so I can afford to decline anything sponsored, whether openly so or otherwise.

I’m quite clearly crap at capitalism – but perhaps I’m in the right job.

Sara’s story: “one horrid lady laughed at the amount of colostrum I produced”

“Ungrateful and pathetic” – the bad book review

I’ve had a stinker of a review on Amazon. I am officially on the naughty step for pretty much every aspect of my book (except for the grudging acknowledgement that it is “not terribly badly written” – why, thank you, I think).

I always knew the book wouldn’t be everybody’s cup of tea, as it were, and yes, as the reviewer points out, it is very sweary (the word fuck makes its debut in the very first paragraph). If you don’t like swearing this is not the book for you. Perhaps it should come with an “explicit lyrics” sticker like you get on CDs. But hey, we’re all adults.

I actually don’t mind criticism. I’m pretty used to it, and when you’re writing about controversial things, you expect to stir up, um, controversy. This lady is as entitled to her views as I am mine – I do respect that. Hell, I wrote a whole book about mine. She managed 12 paragraphs of relentless negativity, which I have to admit is pretty good going. At least I can tell she actually read the book.

So, here are her views. This particular reader thinks I am “ungrateful”, “pathetic” and “damaged”.

Let’s start with the first one. I’m not sure what I am supposed to be “grateful” for – I think it might have been that I was able to stay in a delivery room at the hospital, for six whole days, by myself, while a team of women came into my room every three hours, night and day, to alternately squeeze me, poke me, hook me up to machines and then berate me for not being able to breastfeed. Yes – thanks folks, that was definitely a highlight of early motherhood.

“Pathetic” because I didn’t just shut my mouth and accept that this is something all new mothers have to go through and WE DON’T TALK ABOUT IT. Sorry – not playing that game either. I wish I could show the reviewer the 600+ emails I’ve had from women saying thank you for speaking out, that they also had bad times and hadn’t realised there were others out there. She also seems to think the only reason I got my book published is because of my professional contacts. Erm… it’s a self-published book, love. You don’t need “contacts” to do that. You just need an email address and a pdf.

“Damaged” – well I’ve scratched my head a lot over this one. Am I damaged? Certainly, I would say the experience itself was damaging. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like such a miserable failure, a desperately bad mother, a disappointment to everybody including myself. Maybe I am damaged. Writing the book was definitely cathartic. Talking to other women, and experts, was both heartbreaking and heartening, I suppose, in the sense that I realised I wasn’t alone in wondering what the hell was going on when it comes to the breastfeeding mantra.

I’ve just popped in to look at my sleeping baby, who is now a bouncing toddler (when he’s awake). He doesn’t look damaged. And that makes me feel um, un-damaged by default (the book is better written than this, I promise. What? it’s late).

So I don’t actually think it did any lasting harm (thank you for your concern though). But that’s precisely because I was able to put a bad experience to good use – to unite a fragmented community of unhappy women left outside of the breastfeeding fold. One lady emailed me recently to say she was not allowed to sit in the “feeding circle” at her local new mums group because she was unable to breastfeed. She had to sit on her own, on a stool, in the corner with her baby and bottle. She has emigrated to have her second child because she couldn’t face going through that again here.

Or how about Zoe, who didn’t want to have a second child at all because of her ordeal? She was told the reason she couldn’t breastfeed was because she was lazy.

Now that is damaging. It’s bloody awful. I think it would be far worse NOT to talk about this stuff. Seriously.

Guest post: Why wasn’t my milk coming in?

BRIDIE’S STORY

It’s almost six years since my daughter was born, but even today I feel angry when I look back at those early days.

Being ten days overdue, my obstetrician told me I had to be induced, despite both myself and my baby being very well. My labour started within five hours of the gel being applied, but after an initial couple of hours of progressing well it slowed down and resulted in my daughter being brought into the world with the aid of forceps.

During the first few minutes of cuddling my beautiful new baby, I distinctly remember the doctor asking the midwife to confirm that the placenta was all present and her reassuring him that it was.

I felt like I had been through hell, little realising that the days ahead would be even worse.

My first attempts at breastfeeding didn’t go so well, but I put that down to us both being tired – after all, it had been a big day for baby too! The following day I was still having problems getting my daughter to latch on and, once she did, nothing seemed to happen. I then spent 20 minutes on each boob trying desperately to express even a single drop of colostrum.

Eventually it came, but it was such a minute amount after such a lot of effort and did little to sate my baby’s appetite. She was given some formula to tide her over until the next time.

Over the next 36 hours various midwives came in, shoved their hands on my breasts and forced them into my baby’s mouth. Every one of them had a different method, there was no consistency, and I was starting to feel confused. In between this I seemed to spend hours on the “milking machine”.

Why wasn’t my milk coming in? Why was breast feeding so hard, when everything I’d seen and read made it appear so easy and natural? After each fruitless attempt to feed, another amount of formula was given and I was left to feel completely useless.

When my husband popped in on his lunch break the following day I burst into tears. I’d had enough.

Breast feeding wasn’t working, I just wanted my baby to have a full tummy and for me to get some rest. I was physically and emotionally exhausted. Shocked at my state, he rang for the duty midwife and told her, in no uncertain terms, that from now on it was bottle only (formula, plus what I could express) and that nobody was to mention breast feeding again. It was such a relief, literally like a weight lifting off my shoulders.

The hours that followed were bliss in comparison. My baby slept because she was no longer hungry, and that meant I finally got the rest I needed. Night-time wasn’t so good. At 4am, and after a large feed, my baby wouldn’t settle. She cried and cried, and I was almost at my wit’s end. I rang for the midwife to ask what I should do. Was it trapped wind, or was she still hungry?

I couldn’t believe it when the midwife, far from helping a distressed mum and baby, stood there and lectured me about how it broke her heart that I wasn’t breast feeding! I felt sick.

The next morning I decided I’d had enough and took my baby home. The midwife that checked me out was amazing. She asked what I planned to do about feeding and I told her I was going to formula feed, as well as keep expressing. She looked straight at me and, obviously seeing my heart wasn’t in it, told me to make a decision to do one or the other and not to feel bad if I didn’t want to express. It was a breath of fresh air. Where had she been all those days?

So I took my baby home, and for six weeks I enjoyed being a new mum. Formula feeding worked really well, as it allowed my husband to feel included and meant I could at least get some sleep at night. Then I experienced heavy blood loss. It happened twice, and scared the life out of me. After the second time, I rang the health line and was told to present to the Emergency Department.

A referral for an ultrasound was made, and they discovered a piece of the placenta that had broken off and was still sitting in my womb. I was devastated, not least because the conversation between the doctor and midwife was so clearly etched in my memory. A D&C followed, which thankfully solved the problem.

It’s only in recent months that I’ve learned that that little piece of placenta would have prevented my milk coming in. That one error by the delivering midwife turned out to be the cause of so much distress that I ended up with PND and look back on the first few days of my daughter’s life with dread, rather than happiness.

Second time around, I told the midwife while I was in labour that it would be bottle feeding from the start (I took my own formula as I’d heard that the hospital refused to stock it). Once you’ve been there, done that, you can make your voice head, but it breaks my heart how many other first time mums go through distress during what should be the happiest days of their life.

Bridie Jenner moved from the UK to Western Australia in 2005, where she now lives with her husband and two little Aussies.

To get in touch email breastfeedingbattles.gmail.com.

You can buy the book Birth Boobs and Bad Advice here.

When did Mothers Day get so ridiculous?

Just another typical week in the office

Okay, I admit I’m going off on a slight tangent here.

My excuse for the artistic licence is that I go on a lot about mums being belittled over bottle feeding… and this is just belittling, full stop.

Here in the UK it’s Mothers Day on Sunday. This traditionally means a huge sales boost for chocolates, flowers, Sunday lunches – and cards.

I’m not sure whether I’ve sleepwalked through the 35 mothers’ days I’ve been alive for so far but it struck me today  like a sledgehammer – the cards are, almost without exception, sexist, stereotypical and utterly irrelevant to modern life.

EXHIBIT A:

“Dear mum, thanks for doing all the washing/cooking/ironing, I love you” (however, the only thing I can think of to celebrate about you is the fact that you do household chores)

EXHIBIT B:

“Dear mum, your washing/cooking/ironing is completely crap… but I love you anyway” (one card, which no doubt thought itself hilarious, was emboldened with the gag: How do we know when dinner is ready? when mum’s in the kitchen and we hear the fire brigade coming. What dazzling wit)

EXHIBIT C:

“Dear mum, I know you spend most of the year living like a Victorian scullery maid but hey, have a day off!” (see picture)

The picture, taken in a well-known stationery shop, made me so cross I actually had to walk out. I mean, seriously. In 21st century Britain, is there a mother among us for whom Thursday (or indeed any day) is “washing day”? Sandwiched as it is between “shopping” on a Wednesday and “baking” on Friday. Even in Downton Abbey they didn’t live like that. Either above or below stairs.

Am I just being pissy? Surely, whether you’re a stay-at-home mum or a working mum, this piece of mind-blowing tedium is not how you would wish to describe your week?

And is it really still funny to mock a woman for her domestic abilities? Maybe your mum is a bit tardy with the vacuuming because she’s… I don’t know… juggling two jobs and looking after her own aged parents. So instead of trashing her for her failings on the day that is supposed to belong to her in the first place, as the card companies seem to be suggesting, why not put your money where your mouth is and dig out the marigolds yourself?

I ended up buying my own mum – a formidable lady who trekked to the base camp of Everest in her late 50s despite having arthritis – a card featuring a cartoon from the New Yorker. It has nothing whatsoever to do with Mothers Day but it sure as hell doesn’t  pass any judgement on her sodding ironing skills. She would never forgive me.