Kinsley Turns One: a reflection.

Tomorrow Kinsley will turn one year old. The realization is a lot to take in.

Consider this: the odds of becoming a human being are 400 trillion to 1– it is basically a miracle that any of us exist the way that we are. On top of that, dare I say Kinsley is lucky to be alive: the odds of being born with TEF are 4,000 to 1, and while it is not the rarest congenital defect to exist, the complications that come with it can be fatal.

She is alive and well on her first birthday, despite her congenital defects, which we happen to be very grateful for. In every way the odds have been in our favor–to others it may not sound like it, but I believe it depends entirely on how you view things. Let’s go back and have a look at a unique perspective.

I woke up the morning of Sunday, June 25th around 5 am with slight contractions, similar to what I’d been having for the previous week. Nick and I had breakfast at JW Filmores and when we got home he left to have his hair cut. By the time he returned we decided we should head to the hospital.

We arrived at McLaren Northern Michigan’s emergency room around 1:00 pm and were situated in our birthing room shortly thereafter. I was dilated to 2 cm, which meant we had some waiting to do. By 5:30 I was dilated to 5 cm and within the next 45 minutes I was up to 8 cm. My doctor finally came in to break my water at 6:45 pm and I was told to push at 7:10 pm. Kinsley was born about 25 minutes later at 7:37 pm. The ease of my birth experience was made up for by the difficulties that followed.

Kinsley was placed on my chest, for maybe three minutes at best.


My placenta was abruptly pushed out without warning or explanation of what was being done. I did not opt for the epidural, but I had to be stitched up where I tore and I apparently was administered numbing medication to do so, though I could feel every thread being pulled through my skin. Kinsley was taken from me to be weighed and measured, while my body was in shock, shaking uncontrollably from pain.

Immediately after she was weighed, there was a moment of confusion; something had gone wrong but no one was talking. It was terrifyingly silent and urgently noisy all at once. I felt shrouded in thick fog, every second moving past in a slow blurry sludge. I kept looking to my mom for an answer but could only see terror across her face, mouth hanging open, hands trembling, eyes moving back and forth from me to the table Kinsley had been moved to. A light was shining on her purple, turning deep blue body, and three, maybe four nurses were huddled around her, counting with deep concentration.

“What’s going on?” I repeated probably fifty times. But no one would answer me.

I can’t remember how we got to the next bit, it was a sensory overload for me… but by some miracle even greater than 400 trillion to 1, the emergency was over and she was breathing again.

The next thing I knew, we were in separate rooms. Nick and I in one, Kinsley down the hall in another, hooked up to some contraption. It took a while to figure out why she couldn’t breathe on her own. A specialist was called in and it was determined that constant suction was needed to keep her airway clear. Finally they found she had Tracheoesophageal Fistula with Esophageal Atresia. Another hospital was called.

By this time she was 4 or more hours old. I had held her for 3 minutes, seen her near dead on a table for slightly less than that. It was not at all what I had expected or envisioned, the planner that I am. I didn’t know it then- maybe I had an inkling, but no real idea- that the next several months would not be like anything I ever could have imagined or prepared for.

Kinsley was taken to the Helen DeVos Children’s hospital. She arrived there before I could even leave Petoskey. The separation was vast, like nothing I had ever known or felt before. Looking back, I recognize that this is when the bitterness began. There was so much hurt that I couldn’t possibly know how to process.

Kinsley’s pain was physical. She underwent two surgeries: One was just two mornings after she was born, the other 2 weeks later. She had several procedures, saw many specialists, encountered dozens of angels in disguise, and by the grace of God she began to recover and thrive.

In the meantime, Nick and I were trapped in a bubble. Stuck in a place no one seemed to understand, feeling things our friends and family had never felt. It was as if time had literally stopped. Everyone else’s life continued on as we watched from the outside. Other people got up and went to work like normal, had their babies and took them home like normal, enjoyed their summer beach days like normal…but all along, there we were, reliving the same day over and over and over again, stuck in our own personal time warp. It wasn’t easy, but we had each other.

Kinsley turned one month old in the NICU. Two weeks later she was discharged and the time warp finally broke, but the bitterness remained because even though we weren’t at the hospital anymore, everything still wouldn’t be normal yet.

Together the three of us had cleared an enormous hurdle, we had moved a mountain none of us even knew existed. It seemed things would be easier out of the hospital, but once we were home safely, other struggles began.

There was feeding therapy, doctors appointments, medical procedures to perform on our own at home, special feeding routines, pumping for breastmilk every two hours to keep a supply up that no one, not even my baby, could help me do.

In the hospital I had felt the unfairness of it all clinging to everything around me- every step, sight, smell, and sound a constant hovering reminder of how brutal life can be when dealing its cards. Though, when I got home it was something I had to really acknowledge face to face. Everywhere we went (which wasn’t many places or very often due to the severity of the consequences that would result if Kinsley were to get sick) I felt the stares. I felt the curiosity. I felt the questions and the wonder and the ignorance freezing every inch of my heart. In the grocery store. At the dentist. Even getting a coffee.

Sometimes it hurt my feelings; even though people stared because they didn’t know, which is okay, I wanted them to find courage to ask and learn because then I could have at least set the record straight. Not that I needed to, but I wanted to, for Kinsley. She deserved to be recognized for all her accomplishments, not stared at for all her differences.

Once I was at Starbucks with her and I had sat down at a table to wait for a friend. A man came up to me pointing at Kinsley and said, “So what’s with the tube?”

He asked kindly, and since I appreciate and prefer the courage it takes to ask rather than the fear that makes people stare, I gave him the brief explanation I had given so many times in the month we had been home: Kinsley was born with a defect called TEF that caused her esophagus to dead end in her throat and the portion attached to her stomach to be attached to her wind pipe. She had emergency surgery after she was born and now she has the tube to help her eat until everything is healed up and strong.

The man smiled and told me how lucky I am and how beautiful and perfect she is. He asked if it would be okay if he prayed over her. Then he asked if he could touch her. I said yes.

This stranger put his hand on Kinsley’s shoulder, and got on his knees beside our chair and prayed that Kinsley be healed from the top of her head to the very soles of her feet. He prayed that her doctors see perfect, miraculous results at her next visit and that she continue to develop well as time goes on. He then stood up and thanked me for allowing his day to be made by giving him the opportunity to pray for my precious baby girl.

Little did he know, two days later we had our first follow up in Grand Rapids, complete with swallow studies and an esophogram, and the results were perfect. In fact, in the year since Kinsley was born, and the ten months she’s been home, there have of course been challenges, but her overall growth and development has been spot on… her results have been miraculous, even ‘perfect’ if that’s how you choose to look at it.

I don’t know what the odds are that that man was able to find me where I was that day and speak words to me that I needed to hear, I guess 1 in 7.4 billion, but he did, and it helped develop my perspective and ease the bitterness still oozing from my scars.

Something in my heart sparked from our conversation, from the prayer this stranger gave us. He was completely honest and genuine when he said “your daughter is beautiful and perfect, you are so lucky.” He didn’t say it like he felt bad for me or her, which is what I was used to hearing from the day she had been born- this sort of, half-smile i-don’t-really-know-what-else-to-say gesture. It was pure, and I could tell he meant it. I realized then that if a stranger could see it, without knowing first hand all she had overcome, then I should be able to recognize it too. From then on I adopted the phrase “life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you look at/react to it.” There was nothing I could do about her congenital defects; it was what it was and we had to make the best of it. The least I could do was look at the bright side of things rather than dwell on all the bad.

This type of thinking had its challenges. When I really realized there was nothing I could say to change how others viewed her, or me, or our struggles- and let me tell you, quite a few people to this day did/do not understand the severity of her complications, they probably never will- it was hard not to try to change their minds. But I had to realize that those things are beyond me, all I can do is control how I react to them. So I just stopped. If it didn’t require my attention, I didn’t give it any.

More importantly, once I stopped looking at Kinsley from the viewpoint of “there’s all this wrong with her” and I instead started pointing out all her triumphs and everything she’d overcome, I was able to stop comparing and calling out differences between Kinsley and other babies. I could finally let go completely of the bitterness I’d held toward others whose babies were ‘perfect’ and who never had to go through the same struggles we had gone through. The expectations had vanished and I could focus on her only.

The odds of making the best out of a difficult situation are 50-50. It was all up to me, so I chose to react to the situation differently, and my new perspective helped change our lives for the better and move us in a positive direction. This was only one thing I learned from our unique situation.

In fact, all of the learning that happened during Kinsley’s first year was unexpected. I figured I’d learn things like how to feed, bathe, change and soothe a baby. I thought I’d learn how to juggle work and caring for my child. I anticipated learning how to breastfeed and all that jazz. I assumed I’d have to master holding an infant while folding three loads of laundry, but it wasn’t like that at all.

Instead I learned that ‘perfect’ comes in so many forms, you just don’t know it until you do.
I learned that blue eyes are so overrated, it’s those honey colored hazel eyes that can melt hearts and fold even the toughest line into a soft smile.
I learned its OKAY to listen to your body and your heart and not force yourself to pump around the clock because society tells you breast is best, but no one understands that its even harder to do when your baby CANNOT EAT except through a tube.
I learned how to keep quiet when other mom’s complaints consisted of clipping finger nails/changing outfits because of spit up…while my complaints were about arguing with carelink because they couldn’t get my kid’s medical supply orders right and she needed that stuff to eat/having to drive to traverse city in a snow storm to get her a shot so she wouldn’t get RSV and be hospitalized.
I learned the difference between all the sounds my baby makes, without any doubt the ones that mean distress and the ones that don’t warrant an over the shoulder look, even when the at home nurse is sweating bullets on the edge of the couch because she’s never heard a baby sound this bad while breathing.
I learned how to place a nasogastric tube down my child’s nose, through her esophagus and into her stomach.
I had to figure out how to stuff days worth of medical supplies and baby ‘stuff’ for doctors appointments three hours away into a diaper bag that I had only ever planned on taking to the grocery store or a coffee shop downtown.
I learned how to be a secretary and a mom and a partner all in the same space.
I learned who was there for me and who wasn’t, that my partner would stand by me and be supportive in a crisis situation.
I figured out how to survive when money got really tight; how to live without things I used to think I needed.
I got good at crying and breaking down and expressing my frustrations in a healthy way and listening to and leaning on my main supporter, and providing all the same courtesies to him.
I got really good at scheduling doctor appointments and keeping track of medical records and applying for help and giving insurance account information to bill collectors and all kinds of hard things I never saw myself having to do before Kinsley was born.

And you know what? I’m better for it. I am better because of my struggles. The perspective you gain and the things you learn when you struggle is immense.

Everything we’ve been through with Kinsley has been exactly what we needed. If you had asked me if I thought I’d be able to say that in a year, twelve months ago I’d have told you no while crying to my mom over the phone in a hospital hotel lobby behind a slow elevator door, praying I wouldn’t lose service on the way up to my room because I needed someone to hear me and feel what I felt, how I longed for a few moments of less stress and anxiety and freedom from constant worry and fear of the unknown.

Today I know that our challenges with Kinsley have such a great purpose, despite practically crushing us at the time. When it all began we were grasping at short threads, trying to find a light, feeling small and weak. We are in a much different place today, so much so that I often forget, sometimes for days at a time, that we had such a challenging and unique start to parenthood in the first place.

A friend of mine texted me about a week ago explaining that he was telling his coworker about me, explaining my life a little and how we know each other. He said, “You’re honestly so impressive to talk about,” he’s a grad student, so I replied with the laughing emoji and said “But I don’t have a job.” He said, “You’ve done so much as a mother…” and it really hit me then that in one short year, despite all the difficulty, despite being stripped down to nothing and being forced to learn about who I really was, I have grown into everything that I am now, and being a mom to a miracle baby is impressive. There’s nothing I’m more proud of- no degree, no job, no accomplishment is greater.

There is nothing I would change about the last year with her. Not one second. She was not at all what we expected, but now I am certain that the universe took its time on her, crafted her precisely with a great purpose in mind, so she could offer the world something distinct from everyone else. If we had not had such a difficult start, I’m not sure I would know this with such certainty.

Today Kinsley June is the beat in my heart and the air that I breathe. She’s the light of my life: my sun, moon, and every star. Being her mom is an amazing job, and the best part about it is it’s only just been the first year of an entire lifetime of learning with her, witnessing her growth, and watching her take the purpose she’s been given and turn it into something beautiful.

I am so grateful for our first year together, all the good with the bad, exactly the way it is. It has changed me, and now I can be the perfect mother for her.

Happy Birthday Kinsley June, mommy loves you SO much.

May you continue to rise, fight, and overcome any odds that are against you.

Holiday Shit storm.

Well, we’ve officially made it to the part of December where we endure the weird five day limbo stage between holidays.

Personally I love it, because new years eve/day is my favorite holiday. I really enjoy the in-between where things slow down just enough for me to cross off the final things on my “end of year to-do” list and then prepare everything I need to start the new year out fresh.

I love making plans for the new year, and the five day limbo is just long enough for me to do that. I feel motivated and excited for a fresh, clean slate, but that’s not always the case for everyone. The holidays are a hard time of year.

Let’s be real. December is a crazy month because it’s all about making big plans and meeting expectations. I’m sure you’re one of many who gets to the last page on the calendar feeling a little sluggish from Thanksgiving and all the shenanigans that come along with that, and then you begin to worry about if you’ll be able to meet expectations and do enough in December.

“Have I cooked enough? Have I cleaned enough? Decorated enough, gifted enough, visited enough, celebrated enough, seen enough, rested enough”…the list goes on. Whatever it is, it’s been floating around in your head for the last 28 days, and right now, as December is a mere three days from coming to a close, you’re probably still feeling like shit about your ability to meet expectations and wear 5 million hats during the holiday season.

Maybe you’re realizing you never used to feel this way, not up until the last few years.

I can explain that in two words: social media.

The holidays are already a difficult time, but they become increasing challenging when you’re staring, day in and day out, at everyone on your facebook and instagram pretending, not only that they are doing enough, but that their enough is easy and flawless.

I know you spent at least a few days looking at Suzy’s freshly published photo album on facebook, eyebrows furrowing at her immaculately decorated tree, pinterest-esqu living room, spotless dining set, and too-perfect family photos. With each swipe you feasted your eyes on another picture perfect photo and with every one the expectations grew and grew.

I know you did it. I did it too. And so did Suzy. Because we all fall victim to the comparison game, and that’s what social media is good for: making others jealous of their ability to pretend things are merrier than they actually are.

Here’s the thing though, for every perfect photo you see this holiday season, there is most definitely a disaster going on behind it.

I can promise you that Suzy’s cat probably knocked that immaculate tree down twice, and she had to sweep up the broken ornaments while her belligerent husband shouted and took swipes at the satisfied fuzzball. I’m almost positive that instead of hand crafting those living room decorations, she took out a small loan to fund her unnecessary show. And I can guarantee you that those family photos did not go as smoothly as all those rosy red cheeks would have you believe- minutes before the camera flashed, Suzy’s husband was probably bitching about how much he hates family photos, little johnny was wiping boogers on baby Madeline’s shirt as she screamed in horror and Suzy was sitting in her deodorant stained red sweater wondering why she wanted to go through with all this in the first place.

It’s not just her though. It was you too.

Uploading that photo of two wine glasses and a plate of cheese and crackers immediately following a huge fight with your boyfriend. Posting that status about how excited you were to see your parents when you were actually dreading being in their presence. Commenting on your mother in law’s post about family dinner explaining how delicious it was, when you actually placed your napkin over half the food you didn’t eat so no one would know you were throwing it away because the potatoes were lumpy, and you have never liked fruitcake. But it was all a show. Changing your profile picture to that angelic photo of your 11 month old who just shit all up her back 5 minutes ago and has begun regularly saying the word “shit”.

Don’t worry, it was me too.

I uploaded photos of the stockings I made when my mom was actually the one who bought the supplies because we’re too broke to afford dollar store materials. It was me when I posted photos of stuffed peppers that we made and only ate half of because I filled them too full and the beef wouldn’t cook through no matter how many extra minutes I put them in for. I added an album to facebook with photos of my tree that I purchased five days before Christmas from walmart for $20 with money I got from cans I returned from my dad’s canoe trip.

That’s right. Facebook saw the holiday card we sent out to family members, but they didn’t see the thank you note to the women’s resource center for paying my fall term tuition or the past due heat bill that went out with those holiday cards.

Yes, I admit it. I’m guilty too.

We’re all making sure our most highlighted moments make it to the facebook homepage face-tuned and photo-shopped because we’re trying to meet expectations set by others who are just as good or better at setting the bar for pretending.

Suzy, you, and me.

So before New Year’s eve, while we’re in this limbo thinking about our past year and making plans for the new year and/or just trying to stay afloat and keep swimming, let’s take some time to acknowledge this comparison game and take note of the shit storm that’s probably lurking behind every perfect photo we see.

Let’s assert that our life, too, is one wild moment after another- ripe, and beautiful and messy all wrapped in one, and that’s OKAY. We don’t need to be perfect all the time, and we shouldn’t feel like we have to make everyone think we’re perfect all the time. It’s perfectly okay to show the raw, unfiltered moments too.

All that being said, as you gear up for the last bit of the holiday season, whatever your major or minor struggle or unexpected circumstance: financial hardship, loss of a loved one, trouble with the law, mental illness, recent breakup, academic pressure, failed semester…whatever the case, keep it in the back of your mind and just be gentle.

Please remember that while it doesn’t always make the front headline, your friends and family are struggling, just like you. Commit to finishing the year out by going easy on yourself and on others.  Maybe take a break from social media. Maybe pledge to keep the last holiday of the year simple, and maybe follow that theme through 2018 to reduce the expectation/comparison game that had everyone chasing their tails in 2017.

Relax, give thanks, celebrate, count blessings, rest, enjoy, live (even if everything’s not perfect).

Merry everything and a Happy always from mine to yours.

xo

No Big Deal

Tomorrow morning Kinsley will have her first swallow study since July, which means that soon after we will be able to start oral feeds (hopefully) at occupational therapy. After this test we will be one step closer to getting the NG tube out of her nose, and one step further away from needing to have the G tube surgery.

Because all of her appointments are at a children’s hospital 3.5 hours downstate, when we have appointments I often spend a lot of time preparing for them. This morning while I was packing Kinsley’s diaper bag, our overnight bag, getting the pack and play together, and tidying up the house so we can return tomorrow afternoon and rest without any chores or errands, I had the opportunity to spend plenty of time thinking about something mentioned to me a week or so back.

It was said that Kinsley’s problems are “no big deal” and that I don’t do anything but sit at home [and twiddle my thumbs].

Initially I laughed it off, because I know that’s simply not true. I know that a comment like that could only be made from someone ignorant, someone clueless- someone who has obviously never seen or heard my child breathe, because if they had, they would understand immediately that an airway disorder IS a big deal. Breathing sustains life, and airway disorders threaten that action.

Initially I wasn’t super offended that someone thinks I don’t do anything but sit at home, because once again, that’s simply not true. Furthermore, how would anyone know what is done daily if they hadn’t spent a day in the life of a mom with a child who has special needs, appointments and routines? So, I shrugged it off.

I chose not to defend my position and said nothing because proving what I do on a daily basis is useless- I know that there are a number of people who have seen first hand all the work that goes into taking care of one happy, healthy child, let alone one with health issues. I know there are several people who can attest to the time I have spent on hold, making calls to doctors offices, and scheduling countless appointments to make sure my child gets the care she needs and can continue to develop normally. I know there are many who recognize the struggle we face with finances, travel, work, and life in general, given our situation. More importantly, my partner and I recognize how far the other goes in order to provide our daughter with everything she needs, which is the most important thing here- above what anyone else thinks.

That being said, this post’s purpose is not prove what I do for my daughter. I don’t need to list everything here that I do day in and day out to prove someone wrong. Instead, I am writing this post as a call to action for anyone who looks onto another person’s life making assumptions and conjectures without any actual knowledge about it, to STOP.

Making comments when you don’t know if they are true or false is rude and hurtful and can be especially oppressive to a person dealing with a lot already. If you don’t know something, either ask, or don’t say anything at all.

Quit whispering. Stop staring. Don’t be a coward- find some courage to understand a diagnosis, situation, lifestyle, struggle- whatever it is you are unsure about…until then, you are not entitled to an opinion.

If you haven’t asked me about my child’s diagnosis, or our daily routines, and if I haven’t shared with you what they consist of, you are not entitled to an opinion about either. That aside, why anyone would feel the need to put down a person in a difficult situation they have no true knowledge of and have never been in, is unbeknownst to me. Perhaps before projecting opinions on others’ lives, we should spend a little more time critiquing and improving our own.

Good day, friends- enjoy your cozy Tuesday- I’ll be spending mine calling my job to give them my availability involving next week’s appointments, finishing a few lab write ups, studying for a midterm for the last class I need to get into the nursing program this spring, and completing housework before I fill the Jeep with what our family needs to stay overnight downstate to make our daughter’s appointments tomorrow, you know, because her issues are no big deal. First I’m going to sit at home and twiddle my thumbs all day, though. 😉

Breastfeeding

Let’s talk about World Breastfeeding Week. 

Kinsley was born June 25th. Leading up to her birth I did everything I could to prepare to be a breastfeeding mom. I purchased a pump, I stocked up on storage bags and nipple cream, and I told myself every day that no matter how hard it was, no matter if she couldn’t latch, or my milk didn’t come in for a week, or my supply wasn’t what I’d like it to be, or my nipples cracked and bled, or I got mastitis, I told myself these things would not be excuse enough to formula feed my baby when I have what she needs right inside me. I told myself I would find a solution to any problem we had. I told myself I was not allowed to give up because I wanted so badly to provide for her in a natural way. It’s something that is important to me.

She was born via natural vaginal birth. No drugs, no pain meds, no epidural. Just sweat, tears, and pure love. I was so proud of myself and at that time imagined breastfeeding would be the same way- hard work but worth every bit of sacrifice and resulting pride. 

But I hadn’t planned or even considered the complication we face today. It wasn’t that my milk didn’t come in. It did, and within 24 hours of birth I was making more than enough for her; it wasn’t that she couldn’t latch, the nurses and I came to find out in the third week after her birth that she was a better breastfeeder than bottle feeder. It wasn’t that my nipples cracked; they didn’t, not even from pumping so much. It wasn’t that I got mastitis; I DID, and I figured it out.

I prepared for these kinds of things because they were the struggles I’d read women often had. But our struggle is different.

Kinsley just can’t eat altogether.

Her congenital defects make it difficult, painful and dangerous for her to take any food by mouth, something I am still coming to grips with.

We got to breastfeed for a little over a week, but when her feeding therapy became dangerous and she needed a second surgery, all oral feeds, including by breast, were forbidden. It isn’t me, it’s her, and no one told me this might happen, in fact it was the farthest thing from fathomable. It still is.

But I still want to provide for my baby, even if she is unable to eat right now and for months to come. I said I would do this no matter what, and I will.

So I have been exclusively pumping around the clock, every two hours to provide the volume that her body needs now, which is 2.5 ounces every 3 hours or 20+ ounces total per day.

It’s really hard. Harder than the struggles I was imagining we might go through.

I don’t get to wake up in the night and put her to breast in our bed for 20 minutes and place her back in her bassinet once she’s full, only to turn over and go back to sleep myself. No, instead she sleeps soundly in the NICU while I wake during the early hours of the night to sit on the second bed in our hotel room and turn on my pump. After 20 minutes I unhook myself from it, turn it off and clean the parts. I walk to the second floor and place my labelled liquid gold in the fridge. Then I return to my hotel bed feeling angry at women who complain about waking in the middle of the night to feed their child, feeling the need to scream, “AT LEAST YOUR BABY CAN EAT.” And then I try to sleep for two more hours until I must repeat the process.

The anger and sadness I’ve felt have been hard to deal with, because I want someone to blame and it isn’t anyone’s fault. I feel angry when I see other moms who have it so easy and don’t realize how lucky they are that these struggles aren’t part of their every day lives, when I would do almost anything to struggle with latching issues or milk supply instead of my child’s inability to eat. I sometimes look at my child and feel so sad that she has to eat through a tube in her nose that nick and I have to learn how to put down her esophagus. It’s scary. It’s painful for me, and it doesn’t feel normal because it’s not for many others. But it is for us.

It’s not glamorous. Its not what I imagined. It’s not fun. But it’s honest motherhood.

I have struggled so many days and nights with the blind commitment I made months ago, to continue on no matter what. At night I have sat up in bed with both shields attached to my breasts, wondering why I am still doing this when many women have quit before enduring half of what I’ve been through to do this for my child.

But then I think of how different this is for me, and the perspective I have now because of this. Then I remember how my story can be inspiring to others, and how the pride I feel by providing for Kinsley this way is 10 times the pride someone else feels for providing for their child because the struggle I have endured is so much greater. I remind myself that nothing about this is easy but that’s okay, because these results are so much greater to me and mean so much more in my heart than if we had had smooth sailing from day one. And the bond I have with my child is something no one can even come close to measuring because they have no clue what this has been like.

All that being said, I hope if you’re struggling with breastfeeding this week or in the future that you remember how much more difficult it could be and it helps you keep going. And if you decide you can’t, I hope that you feel confident about your decision. I know what that’s like too.

Recently I was faced with the decision to go to 50-50 feedings (half breast milk, half formula) temporarily because I had to return home for a short time and had no way to transport milk 200 miles to the hospital while I was gone. Even though I knew she would be back on straight breast milk when I returned, it was devastating and I felt at first like a failure, but babies are fed formula all the time, and there is nothing wrong with that. I had to remind myself that you can only do what you can do.

So no matter what, I hope if you’re a mom, breastfeeding, formula feeding, or otherwise, I hope you know that even women like me, who have fought tooth and nail to do this for our babies, even we support your decision whatever it is, because FED is truly best no matter if it’s formula or breast milk and no matter how it’s given- by breast, by bottle, or in our case, by feeding tube.