Camping out with the Israelites

Disclaimer for the men: what follows will have a fair bit of disclosure about breast-feeding and the vehicles of said sustenance. Proceed forth at your own risk.

Last night was a rough newborn night. Following a rough toddler day. Eliana had come down with cold number two, which means she had also come down with another severe case of the crankies. I headed to bed weary of the discipling negotiating work of raising a toddler. It soon became apparent that sleep would be elusive, though. Poor Arabella had a nose full of snot, the intense desire to be nestled in bed between mommy and daddy, and the orchestral snorting performance of Snuffleupagus. If the constant snorts and snuffs weren’t enough to keep me awake, I had the constantly repeated doctor uttered refrain in my head of “a cold could land your daughter in the hospital.” The only solution to the restless night was a lot of feeds and a lot of prayer.

I woke got up understandably exhausted and immediately reached out for my lifeline. I called Papa and asked if he wanted a date with Eliana so that his daughter and other granddaughter could catch a few z’s. Because he’s gracious and compassionate he instantly agreed. And so it happened that I curled up for a nap on the couch with Bella, who was also wiped from the night. Settled down on our very comfortable couch for a very long nap. At one point she stirred and I thought, “I should feed her,” but her immediate return to sleep eased me back to the same land. And so we had a bit lengthier time between feeds.

At this point I should mention that due to Arabella’s heart defect, she burns calories at a greater rate than most babies. Consequently, we’ve been working to increase supply as well as calories by pumping two feeds a day and adding a bit of formula to the feed. The girl has been a champ at going between bottle and breast. However, all of this milk supply work meant I woke up and the girls were quite full. And my still sleepy from a restless night baby daughter failed utterly at clearing it all off, even though it was literally dripping into her mouth. At that point I should have pumped the rest. But I was so tired.

Fast forward to the afternoon. Eliana was napping peacefully upstairs, and Bella was snoozing next to me as I worked (yep, decided this was a good week to return to work). Once again the time ticked away on the clock. Once again, a slight stir from Bella. I looked at the clock, calculated how much time I had left in the toddler’s nap, instantly knew if I fed now that that time would be expired and so decided to try to finish the current task real fast.

Experienced mama’s at this point know exactly where this story is going.

Evening approached, Ellie got up, and I notice tenderness. I’m no novice at the world of breastfeeding, and alarms instantly started ringing. I grabbed my pump, which I knew would be more efficient than my sleepy baby, and tried to pump off all the milk. At that point wisdom would suggest I should lay down with a cold compress and rest.

Instead I got dinner together and played with my toddler.

By the time Jeff got home, things were quite tender so I handed the baby (still wanting to doze) over and pumped as much as possible. And then laid down to rest. And then proceeded to finish dinner prep, then clean up the kitchen, then fold and put away laundry. And progressively that right-hand, proudly over-performing lady became harder, and hotter, and increasingly painful. A hot compress before the last feed before bed was too little intervention too late.

By the time I crawled into bed I was writhing in pain with a 102 degree fever. (You may have seen Kristin comment on my bravery during labor. You now know that was purely the outworking of prayers. I have the pain tolerance of a toddler). It turns out there is something more consistently painful than labor. No joke.

And so pretty soon I started throwing a massive pity party. Oh poor wretched me – how could this possibly be my lot? I came within inches of cursing God’s design of breastfeeding and swearing it off from this day forward. And I texted Kristin for prayer (and let’s be honest, a healthy dose of pity as well).

Kristin is a very effective pray-er. And pretty soon the Lord was giving me a firm tap on my behind with his correcting shepherd’s rod. And he drew those bumbling Israelites to mind once again.

The Israelites who were being destroyed by the Egyptians and back breaking labor and the targeted killing of baby boys. This was a pretty dire situation. And the Lord showed up and decided to teach the Egyptians who’s boss. Plague after plague and then a miraculous nighttime escape complete with the wiping out of an entire army of enemies.

What should follow? Intense praise, right? Granted, that did happen.

But it wasn’t long before pity began to whisper its seductive lies and complaint began to slip out. And so we see the Israelites complaining about the food that was keeping them alive on the road away from slavery.

Those ungrateful, forgetful Israelites! Surely we have nothing in common, right?

And then I began thinking. I have recently witnessed the miraculous rescue of my daughter from death.

And amazingly, Jesus made my body to provide sustenance for that baby.

That sustenance, and the process of providing it, might not be particularly glamorous or always pleasant. In fact, there can be some rather unpleasant aspects to it.

But it has been provided and that is grace. I should be praising the Lord for full breasts, for milk dripping freely to feed, sustain, protect, and nourish my daughter. My daughter who is ALIVE. My daughter who is protected from so many illnesses by that flowing river of milk. Protected from illnesses that could land her in the hospital.

So much abundant grace. There should be no room in the midst of that grace for self pity. But the enemy’s tongue still flicks and spins lies and constantly draws me to question the goodness of my Lord.

And so once again it’s pain that draws me to reflection, to confession, and eventually praise in the midnight hour. Pain and fever and chills.

But I’m no saint. And I’m counting the hours until Walgreen’s pharmacy opens. I’ve learned the lesson so we can move past the pain, right?

Something tells me I’ll be learning this lesson again. Probably tomorrow. Probably in about ten minutes when I put Arabella to the breast and endure the pain of let down. And so I head back upstairs to feed my child, repeating the refrain in my head…all is grace, all is grace.