I've been a little hesitant to write this post for the last few days, simply because I'm not sure how well it will be received, and up until now I've not been able to decide if I wanted to subject my experience to as much scrutiny as I most certainly will by posting it on my blog. I decided it was a story worth telling, regardless of how people--non-Catholics, in particular--respond to it. So here goes! I should warn you, though, that the following post is pretty long and very personal. I always love comments, but if you want to debate the intercession of the Saints, do it on Matt's blog.
So first, I should say that since a few weeks after finding out I was pregnant again, I've been having a really hard time nursing the baby. Alot of women have trouble nursing during pregnancy, so I did expect to encounter some bumps along the road. What I didn't expect, however, was to feel the way I did. That is, to suddenly begin to HATE nursing. It was almost like a switch went off in my brain one day; one minute I loved nursing, as usual...the next, I wanted to throw myself on the floor and have a tantrum every time the baby so much as looked at me in a hungry way. I mean, really. We're talking about a serious case of sensory overload, and every time I sat down to nurse, it began to feel like a serious violation of personal space. I honestly just wanted to throw the baby off of me and run screaming from the house. It was awful. I was tense and Ambrose knew it. I'd let out a frustrated sigh, he'd start bawling.
My milk supply took a dip last week sometime and I began to notice fewer and fewer wet diapers coming from him, not to mention a more intense need to nurse (both for comfort and for food), which just added to my frustration. I've also had a hard time drinking water lately, which didn't help that situation at all.
So I felt kind of trapped. I feel pretty strongly that 9 months is too young to wean a baby, and I so desperately did not want to resort to formula (It's from the devil! Not to mention that Ambrose is CLUELESS as to how to drink out of a bottle. I'm sure he'd get hungry enough eventually, but still.). It was heartbreaking for me, too, because up until this point I really, truly loved nursing and it was awfully sad for me to come to the realization that this relationship that I've so cherished might really be ending. Don't get me wrong, I was really hating it. I just missed loving it.
Last Saturday I spent nearly an hour trying to feed and put the baby down for a morning nap. I'd get frustrated, he'd get stressed out...we'd take a break, try again, repeat. It made me so sad, and I felt like I was doing such a terrible job (and I was!). I've been telling myself for weeks to just grit my teeth and get through it each and every time, but it just didn't work that way. It seemed to be a battle between pregnancy hormones and breastfeeding hormones, and the pregnancy hormones were winning. This was something I've been in prayer for constantly, something I've asked others to pray for me about as well. But still, I had no tangible solution, there was nothing I could do to talk myself out of the way I was feeling, and I was pretty much at a loss as to what to do next.
After the baby was finally sleeping that morning, just a few days ago on September 1st, I returned to the living room, feeling defeated, and began flipping through the book of Saints that I keep on our coffee table. I came across the section of patron Saints for Women. There were patron saints for childbirth and mothers and wives and...yep, breastfeeding mothers. I read the few paragraphs written about St. Giles, the patron saint of nursing mothers and how he'd given up his wealthy heritage in Athens, Greece and lived as a hermit in France, living off the milk of a doe (thus, his patronage) and giving his riches to the poor. His feast day? That very day, September 1st.
Yeah, it seemed a little eerie. (In a good way!) After a few google searches on more of St. Giles' life, I offered up a quick prayer for his intercession: "Saint Giles, pray for me." And I did each time I nursed for the rest of the day.
I don't want to cast the intercession of the Saints in a light that makes it seem like some "magic" that "works instantly!!!" like one of those internet ads that claim to help you lose 20 pounds in 3 minutes. Obviously, it's not like that at all. All I was asking and hoping for was for someone holier than I to present my needs before the Heavenly Father. And he did. That very afternoon, I sat down to nurse, bracing myself for battle.
Nothing.
Really, nothing. I didn't want to throttle him! I felt as nauseous as ever, and there was absolutely no physical or logical explanation for the sudden change in attitude. Saturday passed peacefully into Sunday. I began each nursing session with a "Saint Giles, pray for us!" And repeated it each time I felt myself growing tense or frustrated. And the thing is, I really wasn't tense. In fact, I was downright relaxed. For the last few days, I've honestly enjoyed our nursing relationship--something I haven't been able to do for over a month, and I'm so thankful for that. In many ways, I feel like we both still need it.
There still seemed to be a problem with how much Ambrose was actually eating, though...since we were down to approximately 2 *very slightly* wet diapers a day, and a moderately wet diaper at night, and this had lasted for close to a week. Monday night I prayed specifically for this, and asked St. Giles for his intercession, in particular, for my supply issues.
Yesterday afternoon (Tuesday), I changed two heavy, very wet diapers. Things are going well today, too.
So interpret this post however you like. As for me, I'm praising God for being faithful to hear and answer my prayers, praying that He will continue to do so, and eternally thankful to Saint Giles for his powerful intercession on my behalf.
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