Some say it’s nature’s “Liquid Gold,”
A gift more precious than anything sold.
Some say it forms a bond like no other,
Of connection and trust between baby and mother.
Some say the milk babies get from their mamas
Is the super food you can make in your pyjamas.
Some say it’s unique and cannot be matched,
Its secrets imparted when baby is latched.
Some say, from Hera’s breast, the spray,
Formed what we still call, The Milky Way.
Some say it’s a powerful healing elixir,
A mysterious, milky, all around fixer.
Maybe it’s a little of all of the above,
Or maybe it’s simply Liquid LOVE.
--"Breastmilk," by Grainne Evans
In truth, my nursing journey with her wasn't as pleasant as with her brother's. Dannica would choke and sputter at my aggressive letdowns. Even as she was the better eater, she was the one more prone to spitting up. She bit harder when nursing as she was teething, to the point where I'd cry out in pain, frantically trying to unlatch her. She somehow managed to simultaneously chug breastmilk and drip rhythmic droplets of drool down my side until I shoved crumpled tissues and rags below the corner of her mouth to staunch the warm, wet trickle. She fed on one side and absentmindedly played with, tweaked, twisted, and molested my other breast. She distractedly popped off to give her undivided attention to something else in the room, only to screech discontent when I lowered my shirt to tuck away the food source that she had abandoned just moments before.
And yet, Dannica's nursing journey lasted longer than Luc's. I weaned him at 14 months, and he gave it up so sweetly, without a battle, settling contentedly for snuggles or reading a book. I didn't think I'd nurse Dannica for close to 24 months, starting to wean her a month before her second birthday. It helped that I wasn't dragging along my Medela pump and all the parts, accessories, and milk bottles to work for long. At the start of the pandemic when the work-from-home mandate came out, I abandoned the plain and lonely little lactation room in the building that I'd have to walk to twice a day to pump, and I was able to continue doing so in the privacy of my home, along with giving Dannica more frequent access to breastfeeding.
Some things were still familiar: setting alarms and blocking off my work calendar to pump milk, the drone of the pump's motor, the satisfying splash of letdown in the plastic bottle, the top two shelves of our freezer reserved for milk storage.
I diligently labeled the Lasinoh bags, froze them flat, and organized them in gallon-sized Ziploc bags by date and volume. In time, I marveled at how the milk changed colors, based on a system of checks and balances to provide what Dannica needed most at a certain age, or when she or I fell sick.
The watery layer gradually lessened to make room for more fat, my milk deepening to a creamy, rich gold as Dannica needed more nourishment to grow.
I started out taking supplements to boost supply and baked a few batches of chocolate-chip-oatmeal lactation cookies, but I quickly went back to being an oversupplier, producing more milk than Dannica could consume.
I swallowed costly probiotics recommended for breastfeeding and took daily sunflower lecithin capsules to stave off clogged ducts. Having learned my lesson from my time breastfeeding Luc, I didn't let clogs stick around long enough to become mastitis, attacking them immediately with hot compresses and antibiotics when I felt fever and aches set in.
Pump and bottle parts piled high and waiting to be washed became a common sight near our kitchen sink, and Tung would have to spend the night hours after the rest of us tucked into sleep to go at it with bottle and nipple brushes, racking up all the parts to dry and for me to reassemble the next morning.
Once again, I took to donating my milk to a local mom-to-mom group, meeting moms and dads who made the journey to a complete stranger's porch for contactless pickup of breastmilk to nourish their babies. I'd do the balancing act of saving enough frozen milk to send with Dannica to daycare while reaching out to see who could relieve me of batches--hundreds of ounces at once--so we could clear up freezer space for food, especially when I started to freeze the baby food I pureed for her. I chatted with the parents through private messages, we'd swap stories of our babies close in age, and they'd send me pictures of their little ones when we'd touch base again after a few months so I could see their children grow and thrive off donated breastmilk.
It didn't take long for Dannica to quit her paci. Some time spent swinging to sleep in Daddy's arms with her Celtic Woman songs playing made her quickly forget about her favorite pink-owl pacifier. But she didn't give up breastfeeding without a battle. I dropped her feeds slowly, first the post-daycare nursing when she could be otherwise entertained with an activity, and then shushing her and patting her back to sleep when she woke up at night crying and nuzzling into me, seeking the scent of my lavender-vanilla body oil that I lathered on to keep my skin supple.
The bedtime nursing on our side of the bed was the toughest for me to give up. She'd crawl up to where I reclined and ask to "mum," her word for nursing. Even when I teased that mumm'ing was for babies and she's getting to be a big girl now, was she sure? She'd nod emphatically and say with conviction, "Mum!" It was during that time when we'd wind down from the day and bond, when I'd caress her chubby cheeks, run my thumb along the soft skin of her forearms, and smooth her fine, silky hair. I'd look into her eyes and return her occasional sly smile; I'd listen as her breathing grew steady and deep when she suckled herself to sleep. These hours that we passed as the seasons changed, cozily wrapped in our nest of blankets and pillows, or gazing out at the play of leaves and shadows, watching the sunset paint colors in the sky--they're what I treasure most about nursing both of my children. Time stands still so that we could just feel, and be.
Dannica was roughly weaned after 6 weeks of effort. I gave away my last batch of frozen milk on May 23, 2021, thirty-six last ounces that I hung on to for almost half a year "just in case," but decided to put to better use than be our security blanket in a journey quickly ending. There is a quiet sort of grief in giving up breastfeeding with a child that you feel will likely be your last. Even if I could experience the joy of grandchildren, there's no do-over for next time with nursing, this very special bond between a mother and her baby. There's the emotional impact of crashing hormones as your body gets the cue to close shop on endorphin-producing breastfeeding. There's tucking away all the nursing bras with the lingering scent of shed milk, and gaining weight more rapidly without the aided calorie-burn.
At night as she closes her eyes, I'd whisper to her, "I love you, Dannica," and she'd reply, still unable to pronounce her L's, "I you, Mommy." In the darkness of our bedroom when she now falls asleep without the
crutch of nursing, I sometimes hear her suckling softly at air, as a distant
muscle memory lulls her to her dreams. Even though it wasn't as deep and profound a journey as my first experience at breastfeeding, I'm deeply grateful for my body providing--not just for my two babies but quite a few more families along the way--and thankful to sustain this rite of motherhood across the first two years for my baby girl.
Total ounces frozen: 3,467
Total ounces donated: 2,649
Total babies donated to: 14
Weaning began: 6/12/21
Weaning ended: 8/15/21 (after 9 weeks)
