We arrived at the hospital at 4 pm on Friday and you were here a little after 12:30 pm the next afternoon. All that mattered was you getting here safely, but there were bumps along the way. We had our hour to bond and then I remember being helped up from my hospital bed and into a wheelchair to go to our room on the postpartum floor. I can still see everything go black and hear “Rapid Response Team, Labor & Delivery” called overhead. I saw figures rush in, then I lost consciousness. When I came to, I wasn’t all there. Chris sat across from me, frozen. The nurses asked me what day it was and I didn’t know. They were worried I’d had a seizure.

I don’t clearly recall the first time I nursed you, but as warm milk pours over your body – still small, but so much bigger than the first time – the memories start to return.

I arrived on the high-risk floor feeling like an alien. The other patients were still pregnant and looked afraid. For that reason, the nurses explained, you couldn’t stay overnight. But before you left, we tried.

With my arms covered in tubes attached to needles planted under my skin, I had no idea what I was doing when the nurse helped bring you close to me and you began to eat for the first time. I wish I could say it was this magical moment between us, but it wasn’t. I was terrified that I’d just had a baby and almost died. I was overwhelmed by everything all at once. I don’t remember taking in your eyes, your skin, your smell. I awkwardly tried to hold you in a position to nurse with twisted tubes and needles digging the wrong way into my skin.

We went home and I tried a little longer, but we brought you in to be weighed and the lactation consultant said you weren’t drawing milk. You did, however, take bottles well, so I made the choice to pump instead. In the beginning, I pumped 12 times a day. It was hard; it was really hard. And I complained. I was sleep-deprived, in a state of postpartum shock, and depleted of all the hormones my body had known for 10 months.

Postpartum depresssion is a thief, and it stole from me any confidence in my ability to be your mom in those early days. But I tried my hardest to not let you see that. With your dad’s love and support, I changed you, fed you, cuddled you, taught you, and responded to your every need. And I pumped for you.

Two weeks became four became eight became 16. My goal was to go as long as I could. The pump and I saw 12 am, 2 am, 4 am, and every other hour of the day. I baked myself lactation cookies, drank smoothies with brewer’s yeast, applied hot pads to increase flow, then cold pads to stop it. I washed and sanitized so many pump parts my skin felt raw. Your amazing dad did also. I liked this task, however, because I got to be obsessive. While I didn’t sleep, hardly ate, cared for a newborn and pumped, my mind raced with anxious thoughts. I cleaned obsessively and worried about money, my job, the environment – you name it. Depression needed a friend.

But 12 pumping sessions became 6 and before I knew it, I was down to 4 and then 3. In hindsight, it was manageable, but the damage had been done. I said to Chris, “This isn’t me. I want to enjoy being a mom.”

That was the day every pumped ounce from there on out went into the freezer. Hundreds of bags accumulated; so many we had to buy a second freezer. You drank both formula and milk and you did great, so I didn’t feel guilty. My sweet guy, you love me so well. I got help for PPD/PPA and one day, like the friends in my support group promised, I looked in the mirror and recognized who looked back. I didn’t feel worried about everything anymore and I craved your closeness. I both forgave and thanked myself. I honored myself for being a good mom in spite of something terrible I didn’t ask for. I kept going to my support group to help others like me.

“You will wake up one day and you will recognize yourself again. I promise.”

It was a cold, rainy night in January when I decided it was time to let go of my remaining milk. Dad had some of it turned into beautiful earrings that I wear especially on days I need a boost of strength. The rest, I felt ready to say goodbye to.

I opened each bag and emptied it into the bath. I slid in as Dad handed you to me. We love taking baths together and this was the most beautiful one ever taken. I poured warm milk over your shoulders and down your back. You smiled and we splashed and hugged for more than an hour. Then I opened the drain and it was gone. The nursing bras given away, the cookies gone, our breastfeeding journey was over.

I will remember it always for the imperfect, complicated journey it was and that I got to share it with you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for the honor of being your mom.