[Author’s Note: When it came to donating breastmilk, the third time truly was the charm! Not only have I been the most productive with this baby, but I also ended up being Donor #17000 — a philanthropic milestone!
Thus, when Mother’s Milk Bank reached out to ask for my story, I jumped at the chance to kill two birds with one stone: 1) to celebrate their laudable mission, and 2) to concurrently generate a July post for the blog. Hence, this piece was originally written for a slightly different audience, which is why my narrative voice is a bit altered. (Less funny, at the very least.)
But, on a serious note: Mother’s Milk Bank does some amazing work for NICU babies around the country — and they also accept milk donors from around the country, too. So, if you know anyone with extra breastmilk… you know whom to contact.]
Once upon a time, my grandmother received some devastating news from her son’s pediatrician.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you just won’t be able to breastfeed,” he said. “You’ve got tons of milk, but it’s all water. You’re starving your baby to death with all that milk!”
And that was how my father’s diet instantly switched from breastmilk to formula. It was a similar story for my mother, whose own mother was told that formula provided the best nourishment for a baby – better even than breastmilk. Many women believed this claim, and thus, most of my parents’ generational cohort was exclusively given formula. Breastfeeding all but stopped in the sixties and seventies.
Thankfully, by the time my sister and I came along three decades later, the practice had regained some of its erstwhile popularity, and – more importantly – doctors had [mostly] stopped issuing erroneous diagnoses of the supposed inadequacy of breastmilk. Instead, emerging evidence suggested quite the opposite.
As the proof of breastmilk’s superiority mounted, more mothers chose to initiate breastfeeding – including my own. By the time I was born, a slim majority of babies received some amount of breastmilk during their infancy. Finally, breastfeeding had the support both of cultural norms and of scientific research.
There was one area of society, though, that required a bit more time in catching up: the medical support community. Women were now encouraged to breastfeed, but if they struggled – oh well! Their options were limited: essentially, to either bear through or just switch to formula.
And so, when my mother found herself nursing my older sister at least hourly, she had little recourse – no lactation consultant, no infant chiropractor, no feeding-specialized occupational therapist. In short, no one in my mother’s community had the ability to identify the reason for my sister’s feeding frequency. She was simply consoled that “some babies are just like that”.
A couple years and a move to the desert later, my mother welcomed a second baby. I, thankfully, was easier to breastfeed – although my consistently-dehydrated mother struggled to produce enough milk for my needs. She eventually decided to supplement her supply with formula, and I’m glad that she did. The best baby is a fed baby, after all.
Fast forward a few decades – to when I was pregnant with my first baby. My husband and I took part in a breastfeeding class, which I completed with unreasonable optimism.
How optimistic was I? Well, when I saw a Mother’s Milk Bank pamphlet after the class, I turned to my husband and said, “I’m gonna be a milk donor.”
Yes, it was a ridiculously overconfident thing to say. (And yes, my husband pointed that out.) But, several months later, I cleared all the hurdles to become a milk donor – and with that, I embarked on a journey that few of my predecessors could have undertaken.
My goal was not just to successfully breastfeed my own children, but to help feed other children, as well – like a modern-day wet nurse. And, as it turns out, nourishing children is just like raising children: that is, it takes a village… a breastfeeding village.
This was true of my first stint as Mother’s Milk Bank Donor #12457 – and it was even more true two years later, as Donor #14464. However, it’s been the *most* true during this final period of milk donation, as Donor #17000 – because this was the child for whom I needed (and received!) assistance that simply wasn’t available to my foremothers.
It started when my son was less than a week old. We noticed that his tongue was awfully tight – so we asked our speech pathologist, who chatted with her colleague, who in turn referred us to an eminently qualified lactation consultant. She assessed my son’s symptoms, then sent us to a pediatric dentist who diagnosed him with a tongue-tie and released it the same day.
Had I been part of an earlier generation, my story likely would have taken a markedly different course. I wouldn’t have been a milk donor; rather, I would have been told that switching to formula was my *only* option. This was, after all, what happened to my grandmother when my father’s tongue-tie went undiagnosed.
It’s true that formula is necessary in some cases – and my babyhood was just such a case. However, is it possible that formula is still too often portrayed as a mother’s only option? I would argue so – but maybe not forever. While not every mother will be able to breastfeed, I think we’re nearing the day when every mother will at least believe that she has the opportunity to try.
The breastfeeding village – that system of cultural norms, scientific research, and medical professionals – well, that village is stronger than ever. It’s being built little by little, day by day, in-person and virtually. It’s the encouragement of a husband; the support of a mama friend; the advice of a pediatrician; the empathy of a lactation consultant; the website of a mommy blogger; the pasteurized donor breastmilk of a nonprofit. It’s a place where every woman is empowered to make the best choices for her children.
That village blessed me with the ability to continue breastfeeding my son – and, by extension, to continue feeding other babies, too. I love being a milk donor – and I think that, in some small way, I’ve contributed to the architecture of our breastfeeding village.
That support system may not have been there for our mothers or grandmothers – but together, we can make sure it’s there for our daughters and granddaughters.
[Author’s Note: Oh yeah, this kind of brings up that we got Rhys’s tongue lasered open and it never made it onto the blog… but that’s too big a story for a single Author’s Note.
P.S. He’s better now.]