I nursed 7 of my 8. I didn’t love it. I didn’t like it a little. I hated it. I truly hated nursing. Now don’t gather your pitchforks just yet. Before you think I am a horrible mother, and proceed to tell me so below in the comment section, hear me out. I know some women love it. They relish in the act and are gutted and lost when their child weans themselves from the nipple. I used to read stories on breastfeeding when I was first pregnant and I just knew deep in my soul that I would be equally amazed and in love with the experience as so many other moms before me had. It would be so natural, organic and breathtaking. I was even planning on having portraits fit for a magazine taken of my baby and I in some beautiful sunny setting, naturally sitting in a field of daisies or clovers, absorbed in one another while nursing.

Then I had my son. And I started trying to nurse in the hospital. Reality kicked in BIG time. It was a nightmare. Everything about it was a nightmare. Nothing went well. Nothing worked right. I tried for months (months!) after he was born. There were countless trips to the breastfeeding consultant, numerous trips to the Dr. and a ton of reading and studying and experimenting on different positions (FYI I DESPISE the ‘Football Hold’. Don’t know why. I just do.) and proper latching. We tried and tried and tried and tried some more. We.just.couldn’t.do.it. I cried. I screamed. I cried. And boy, oh boy, did baby cry. He was hungry! I was managing to feed him a bit at a time, but never a full-length nursing session. I was literally nursing him every 15-20 minutes around the clock. AROUND THE CLOCK, PEOPLE. And don’t even get me started on the cracked, bleeding and bruised nipples. UGH.

I will never forget the day the Breastfeeding Consultant walked into the waiting room to find both myself and my 3-month-old son crying (again) while we were trying (again) to unsuccessfully breastfeed. We were on a first name basis, this Nurse and I, due to my countless trips to her office since I had brought my baby home. She looked at me and said “Kristin. Honey. I think it’s time to explore other options. You have tried. Baby has tried. Now it’s time to try something else. Let’s talk about expressing.” I heard every word she was saying. I understood every word she was saying. It all made sense. But, I was heartbroken. Devastated, I walked out of there feeling like the biggest failure in the history of motherhood. I couldn’t do the one thing that ALL moms are supposed to do. I couldn’t feed my baby the way nature intended. I sucked at being a Mom already. Three months in on parenting and I was certain I was giving my kid life-long Mommy issues because I couldn’t even feed him. My mind fast-forwarded 18 years and I saw this sweet cherub’s future. He was face to face with a policeman, middle of the night with flashing red and blue lights all around him, and he was saying “That’s why I robbed the gas station at gunpoint officer. My mommy couldn’t even feed me.” As soon as I got home and relayed the message from the nurse to my husband (I probably left out the flash forward glimpse of the future. At this point, my husband was already greatly concerned for my sanity. No need to tip the boat any further) and he went straight to the store, purchased a breast pump (top of the line, too). Needless to say, in the midst of all of the agonizing tears and frustration my sweet little one and I shared all day and night, this poor new daddy could do nothing but stand by and watch and he was ready for the new plan. He was relieved and optimistic. So, I pumped my milk that night. And for the first time in 3 months, my breasts were completely empty and not sore to the touch. And, most importantly, for the first time in 3 months, my little guy was full. And content. And happy. And he slept better than any of us had since he was born. Maybe I couldn’t feed him straight from the breast, but maybe I could just keep on expressing. So, pump and feed, pump and feed was my life for the following 9 months. I carried that breast pump bag around like it was my purse. Heck, I think maybe I did use it as a purse rather than carry around 2 bags. To this day, the sound of a breast pump in a public restroom or church nursery gives me major panic attacks. Now, I understand that some of you may be wondering why in the world I even tried to nurse again after all of that. Sheer determination and stubbornness are really the only things I can think of. I figured out how to nurse like a pro with each of my next 7 babies. I still hated it. To me, nursing was uncomfortable and sweaty. I had to wear pads so full of milk I could ring them out and I smelled like a walking creamery. I was thirsty all the dang time and I really, really wanted to sleep through the night. But, after a certain point, when we had a small tribe in our home to provide for, I was simply nursing out of necessity. The cost of formula vs. free breast milk is easy math.

Nursing is, was and most likely will always be one of my least favorite things about being a mom. After each pregnancy I have struggled postpartum with depression, anxiety and low self-esteem. Nursing and the demands that accompany it just seem to add to the confusion and discomfort for me those first few months. But, it’s not all horrible. I came across a journal entry I had written about a year ago. I was in the throes of nursing my #8 and I honestly don’t even remember writing this: “After the mountain has been climbed. After I regain my confidence and control. After the discomforts and pains fade and time seems to be in a constant state of fast-forward, these beautiful cheeks are what I see all day. Breastfeeding forces me to stop everything I am doing and sit with him. Be with him. To pray for him and his brothers and sisters. To plan their futures and give their hopes and dreams to God. To watch him sleep on me with a full belly, this amazing child that I am blessed enough to be able to provide life, nourishment and love for. He trusts me with all of his little heart and I love him with all of mine. This is motherhood for me.”

Maybe I’m not in love with breastfeeding, but I am in love with being a mother (and my husband, of course!) My children are my greatest blessing and achievement. And, on the bright side, I won’t have to worry about the last 7 robbing a gas station at gunpoint (I hope).