There have been several times in my parenting life when I have been so completely and totally grossed out that I seriously questioned whether or not I was cut out for this parenting gig. I’m not talking about the midnight diaper changes with explosive poop that seeped through the entire backside of the baby’s sleeper and clear down the legs. I mean, those things I could get through (albeit while retching and trying not to get any on my hands in a dazed and sleep deprived stupor). I’m talking about the time I shouldn’t have bottle fed my baby.
Now before the breastfeeding police come at me with pitchforks and torches I will say that I was a breastfeeding mom. While it was the right decision for me, it isn’t for everyone and I respect that. I wasn’t very good at breastfeeding though. I had no idea what I was really doing. The sad thing was, I was the queen of milk production. I mean, there had to have been a good reason for my girls to go from basic “B’s” to “DD'” right? (By the way, there is a funny story about that here). I digress, back to breastfeeding. I would yield amazing amounts of liquid gold. I would nurse my daughter and still be able to pump after. This came in handy for nighttime when I was too damn tired to nurse. It was easier for me to feed my daughter my milk with a bottle because we just never got the hang of breastfeeding in an efficient manner.
One night, she woke and let me know it was time for our nightly feeding ritual. I drug my ass out of bed and felt my way to the kitchen as I tried to wrench open my eyes and have a coherent thought. I warmed up my bag of boob juice expressed earlier in the day from my bouncing Buddha’s and put it in the bottle that I had washed only a few hours before. Something was amiss this night. She seemed to take FOREVER to finish that bottle. So many little grunts along the way too. In my fog, I figured it was just one of those nights that she was going to take her own sweet time. She finished, I praised all the gods that I could return to bed and gave her a gentle kiss before placing her back in her crib.
I padded to the kitchen to put the bottle in the sink. That is when I saw it. I almost died. Those of you who follow our Facebook page know of my phobia. I nearly started dry heaving. I didn’t know what to do as chills ran up and down my spine. The reason for my daughter’s slow feeding became quite clear. A spider had crawled into the nipple after I had washed it and placed it on the rack to dry. In my late night disorientation I had not noticed this before putting my milk in it and feeding it to my daughter. So the entire time, a now dead and mangled spider had been partially blocking the holes in the nipple while my daughter sucked the milk into it, compressing it tighter against the end. Go ahead, I’ll wait while you suppress your gagging and desire to purge your last meal.
I mean, what the hell does a mother do after that experience?! I couldn’t disinfect her mouth and besides, she was sleeping and no smart human wakes a baby in the middle of the night. I couldn’t pour bleach on my eyes and unsee that horribleness. I can promise you that I inspected every single nipple from that night forward like a crime scene investigator. I can tell you that she has continued to grow and doesn’t appear to be sprouting any spiderlike appendages…yet. But that night, I shouldn’t have bottle fed my baby.
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