Breastfeeding vs Formula

Breastfeeding vs Formula

“So, you’re going to breastfeed, right?” 
Ah, the inevitable question all pregnant women receive when they share their good news . It’s not like you have enough to worry about, being pregnant and all. No, choosing the right OB, the numerous doctor’s appointments, pre-natal vitamins, maternity clothes, maternity leave, procuring baby items, naming the baby, etc., are not priorities, but knowing whether or not you will or are able to breastfeed prior to having the baby is a must.

As you know, breasts are used for only two things: attracting a sperm donor and then feeding your offspring once your donor is obtained. Now that you’ve succubied your way into a man, feeding is the only purpose your love ornaments have left. So, you have to breastfeed.

Honestly, there’s one million wonderful reasons to breastfeed. It increases immunities, it helps babies bond with their mother, and there are numerous other vitamins and anti-bacterial agents in breastmilk. All-in-all, it’s nature’s way of being awesome for your baby.

So, I planned to breastfeed. I told everyone, yes! Of course! Breastfeeding all the way! And I did. I was Super Mom! I even went out in public because hey, I’m a normal person who needs to get out once in a while. I took my baby because I’m a good mom who won’t leave my child at home. Then, I fed her.

But breastfeeding in public is not okay. Society seemingly understands how important it is to feed your child and agrees that breastmilk is bestmilk, but when I fed my baby, I had to keep her hidden. You see, love ornaments are to be kept hidden away. I should feed my baby only when it’s convenient for everyone else. My role when I’m out in public is to be considerate of society and force my baby into hunger until such time it agrees I may show my bosom.

But then, it didn’t matter what I wanted. It didn’t matter what my role as a mother should or shouldn’t be. I stopped producing milk. Completely. My baby wouldn’t latch and my production disappeared faster than the comet that destroyed the dinosaurs.

 I did the only thing I could do while on maternity leave. I stayed in bed all day and pumped my life away. Breastfeed, pump, breastfeed, pump, repeat, repeat, until my breasts turned into elongated, inflamed cones. Breasts: you have two jobs. It was my duty as a mother to force them into completing the latter.

I failed. I had to switch to formula.

“So, do you even try to breastfeed?”

The urge to lift my shirt and show my battle scars was insurmountable. Clearly, I didn’t try hard enough. There had to be a way to avoid the poison that is formula. Friends and acquaintances gave lactation advice. More often, women who barely knew me berated me for “giving up so easily.” That’s the motivation I needed to keep going—the constant harassment so that I might feed my baby properly. Didn’t I know the benefits of breastfeeding? Didn’t I understand that my baby would never love me like she should because I was depleting her skin-to-skin time? I needed to get over the pain in my breasts because my baby could not and would not consume the malignancy that is formula. I’d basically given my child the equivalent of six shots of tequila.

I would take out my formula to-go bottles in public. The nerve I had. Other mothers glared. Didn’t I know that women have been fighting for years for breastfeeding in public to be considered normal? I had single-handedly pushed women back dozens of years with my refusal to produce breastmilk. I had clearly attempted to throw biology out the window and “chose to take the easy way out.”

 But women, it’s okay as I’ve solved the problem for the guilt we feel for breastfeeding in public or formula feeding. I’ve hooked up a beer-helmet to my breasts filled with formula. I wear a sheet over my entire body. All you can see is my baby’s head clearly sucking… something. I have single-handedly moved the female movement forward 100 years.

Co-sleeping vs Crib

Co-sleeping vs Crib

I have created a melancholy, isolated environment for my child, a setting which seems eerily similar to the moors in Wuthering Heights. My precious, innocent angel has been denied compassion and empathy, and most importantly, love. How have I stolen her childhood, you ask? By having her sleep in a crib.

My husband and I decided to do the unthinkable at her young age of one week. We selfishly tried to get some amount of sleep and to teach our daughter some independence. We thought it best that she sleep in her crib, but, I now realize this decision is on par with those patrons of the ninth circle of Hell. Did I not see how detrimental I was being to my daughter’s health? It didn’t matter that I had an intense fear of rolling atop her or smothering her with a blanket whilst I slept. No. At the ripe age of 11 weeks, I have already built a sociopath because I clearly do not love. I am a monster.

I have now decided to co-sleep.

I have created a suffocating, co-dependent environment that seems eerily similar to that of Big Brother from 1984. I have created a child who will never tie her shoes on her own because I have decided it best for my family to co-sleep. My child will inevitably become a whiny, spoiled brat because I felt more comfortable with my child sleeping next to me. My fears of leaving my child in her own bed and my attempt to diminish the inconvenience of getting up to feed her are absurd. Didn’t I realize that sleeping with my child automatically means she will never fend for herself? I’ve basically become the mother who calls their child’s professor at Stanford because I know that C was at the very least a B-. Who are we kidding. My child will never leave for college. She will live in my attic because she’s too attached to me. My last name is now Bates. Shame on me for loving too much. I’m a monster.

Clearly, there’s only one option. My child will sleep with our cats. That way, she will be comforted by the love of our pets and I have my bed to myself.