I had a bit of a rough night with Mal Jr last night. He isn't the best breast-feeder in the world, and doesn't open his mouth wide enough to take a decent mouthful, and thereby not make me sore. So last night I was hitting the roof every time anything touched me, let alone applied any form of suction, and I made the decision to express two feeds during the night for him.
None of us got much sleep, so I slept in a while (thank the Lord for the extra hour in bed too). I got up, and he wanted to feed, so I few him without expressing - it was agonising, but just about bearable.
The phone rings. It was my Mum. She started the conversation with "how are you doing?" which is fairly innocuous, to which I replied that we were doing fine, thanks. She said "honestly?" which is possibly the worst thing she could have said at the time. So being tired, hormonal, worried that I'm not doing the best by my son, bothered by the health visitor (sucking in through her teeth like a plumber and saying "weeeell he's not gained much weight has he?" He gained 100g (4oz) in 11 days), and otherwise generally aching and sore (I still have stitches in delicate places) I did the only rational thing I could do, and burst into tears. Mum then went for the jugular with "I was up all night worrying about Mal Jr. He's not thriving, is he?".
I offered my apologies and put the phone down. I think this is the most poorly-thought-out comment she has made to me so far in my life. I have no idea her thought process for deciding that making that comment to me was a good idea. I think what she does is talk to my sister, who blows anything I've said out of proportion, and then jumps to a worst-case-scenario conclusion. So "it's sore when I feed him" turns into "I'm starving him because I don't want to feed him" through chinese whispers. Because I'm breastfeeding him, if he's not gaining much weight, it must be my fault because I'm in charge of what's going into me and therefore what's going into him. Wonderful.
Having suffered with depression in the past, I am sort of waiting for the post-natal depression to hit me. I've been ok and felt really positive for the past 3 weeks. Today is the first day I have felt like utter shit. I want to go and crawl into a hole and not come out for a long time. I feel as crap now as I did sitting looking at him when he was in SCBU. It's this horrible gnawing fear that I might be doing something that's not good for him. I only want the very best for my lovely baby.
I know he's growing, because he's nearly out of 2 babygrows that he once was lost in. He might not be piling on pounds - but he's growing. I know he's fine.
Well done Mum for making me feel so crap about myself. Congratulations. I'm sure that having a sad Mummy is great for your grandson.
