Breast is best.

Get ready for the mother of all posts. Things have been rough here the past few weeks. And that's putting it mildly. I mistakenly thought myself fully capable of mothering four children under the age of 6. Sure, I expected a few bumps and a bit of chaos but I definitely didn't factor in any special circumstances.

Eve is a terrible eater. I suspected problems in the hospital and sought the help of a lactation consultant then. I persisted at home, knowing that I was doing everything right and that it would only be a matter of time before she caught on. I prayed my guts out, I clenched my teeth through the soreness that turned to bleeding, we gave her a blessing, we employed the techniques we had learned at physical therapy when Rachel was having nursing issues; you name it, we did it. Bad turned to worse, and worse turned to unbearable. I felt myself plunging into serious depression - watching my daughter take 2 hours to nurse without satisfaction, helping her fall asleep amidst her frustration, knowing that if she could get some rest we might be able to try again. An hour later, the nightmare would start over.

1. Wake the sleepy baby by taking her clothes off, changing her diaper, rubbing her hands and feet, etc. 2. Spend 20 minutes minimum getting her to latch on properly. 3. Grit my teeth as she would suck vigorously for, oh, about 3 sucks before throwing in the towel. 4. Stimulate her again to get her to keep eating. 5. And again. And again. 6. Switch sides after anywhere from 20 to 45 minutes of lazy eating. 7. Repeat steps 2 through 5. And all the while, we both cried. And cried. And cried. And all the while my three other kids were barely surviving.

This was my life for 2 1/2 weeks. Sure, there were a few moments when I thought she had captured the vision, when I felt we might be through the worst of it. But then the next feeding would prove me wrong. Last week, I could see that Eve wasn't gaining any weight, her yellowish color lacked improvement, and her sleepy, dissatisfied disposition showed no signs of abating. All this work so I could starve my daughter? I considered switching to formula. Instead I ended up back at lactation, where I rented a pump so that I could at least get something substantial into her system in less than 2 hours. She guzzled the bottle. It took her 10 minutes to reach a level of satisfaction that hours had not produced before.

We had a new plan: pump and feed Eve until she reached an age where she was ready to learn to nurse. I was skeptical, but at least I could rebuild my milk supply and get more than 4 hours of sleep at night. Turns out, pumping is a full-time job. I spent 35 hours this past week just pumping and storing the milk, then rinsing the necessary equipment. That doesn't even count the time it took to actually feed her. It was an improvement, but still unbelievably time-consuming. Add to that the nagging fear I had that giving her an artificial nipple had ruined her chances at ever learning to breastfeed. I kept trying to teach her the ways of breastfeeding, without much result and finally decided that I could not go on this way for any length of time.

I felt paralyzed. At age 3 weeks my kids can usually nurse while I'm lying down but Eve could not even complete a feeding (nor ever had). The thought of accomplishing even the smallest task became too overwhelming to consider. I lost my appetite, my ability to play with my children, the desire to wake up and face the day with resolve. I made a decision. I had to do what was best for my family. I decided to switch to formula. Yes. My name is Susie and I formula-feed my child. I say that in true AA fashion.

It's not that I judge people who formula-feed their babies. In fact, some of the greatest women I know do so. But there's nothing defunct with my ability to produce milk to necessitate doing so. And I've nursed my three other daughters for a year each, providing some of the most rewarding experiences of motherhood. Plus, you can't deny the literature - breast is best in so many, many ways.

So now I'm grieving. I feel as if something inside me has died. I'm confident that I made the right decision for our family and yet I'm left to question where I might have gone wrong. What more could I have done to teach my daughter? Would she have learned if I had just endured a bit longer? I lack the answers to these questions.

I'm also angry. Everything I do from the fact that I avoid as much medical intervention as possible during pregnancy and labor, to rooming in with my newborn, to waking her constantly after birth to ensure an adequate milk supply is done with the utmost concern for ensuring a healthy breastfeeding relationship. Why then, was it so darn hard? It seems unfair.

I'm sad. I feel guilty that I can't provide the same for Eve as I did for my other children. I look at her when she's eating and am glad that she's finally getting some nutrition. And that's where the joy ends. I want to be the provider of her sustenance. I see other mothers with their babies and envy their ability to nurse, I long for the experience that I feel was robbed from me.

Lastly, I feel ungrateful. With any number of things that could go wrong, I have a baby born with ten fingers, ten toes, and everything that is required for a healthy existence (except, maybe a survival instinct). So what's the problem with me? I'm hormonal and I think too much, that's the problem.

Perhaps Eve would have eventually gotten the hang of it. After the 3 weeks I endured I consider it a slim possibility, but it could have happened. But at what cost? In my estimation, the cost was too great. So I made a decision. A decision that, while trivial to some, was emotionally-wrenching for me. And I guess that's why it was my trial. We neither get to choose the challenges that beset us, nor do we always understand their purpose. I hope that the Lord will enlighten me one of these days. For now, I just keep plugging along. And try to hold back the tears when someone asks me about it.