June 14, 2007. It is the day that I broke my precious baby girl. My shoe caught in a sidewalk crack and I fell forward onto a set of concrete steps while holding my then eight-month-old daughter. I heard a loud crack and instantly assumed I had fractured her skull. She began screaming and blood was pouring from her mouth. An ambulance ride took us to the emergency room and a CT Scan an hour later showed her jaw broken in two places. We were sent home with instructions not to breast-feed or give her a bottle or sippy cup. Spoon feeding only. She wasn’t allowed to cry, laugh, or move around for fear of dislocating the fractures. She had no teeth so wiring her mouth shut would have been an extremely invasive and seldom tried option. Since she was so young the hope was in her ability to heal quickly.
The next four weeks passed in a blur. Annie was very unhappy when she was denied the breast. I spent long hours at night carrying her around, playing pat-a-cake or singing until she finally gave up and slept for an hour if it was a good night. She would invariably wake up screaming and the whole nighttime routine of walking and singing began again. I also had to squeeze in time for my other four children, cooking, pumping milk to spoon feed to Annie and pretending my house wasn’t really the disaster area I was seeing. I’m sure I only slept a total of three hours during that month.
Annie healed. Babies have a remarkable ability to do so. Five and a half weeks after the accident, we were given the OK to resume breast-feeding. I was sure Annie would want nothing to do with it but instead she nursed as instinctively as she breathed including while she slept. Any attempt by me to break her latch and lay her down resulted in a full fledged temper tantrum. I was carrying an enormous guilt complex so I let her nurse at will.
When she was a happy, healthy nineteen-month-old toddler, I decided it was time to move on and finally wean my dear daughter. She was only nursing first thing in the morning and occasionally at bedtime so I assumed it would be a simple task. Annie had other ideas. The moment I tried to distract her in the early morning hours, instead of snuggling up with her while she nursed, Annie threw one of her temper tantrums. Instantly she knew what I was up to and she kicked and screamed until everyone in the house was awake at five o’clock in the morning. I gave in and Annie proceeded to demand her nubbies every few hours just to make sure they were still available. A few times I attempted to distract her but the guilt I felt over breaking her eleven months prior stopped me from being very convincing.
My fear is that Annie will never be weaned. I have nightmares of having to sneak into her bedroom when she’s a teenager to nurse her late at night. Breast-feeding in public places is not the adventure it once was either. When she was younger and I was crusading for a mothers right to breast-feed on demand, I would proudly nurse her everywhere we went. As a mother I have the right to decide what the appropriate age limit is for me to discontinue breast-feeding and I know that two to three years of age is actually a very healthy option. Yet I feel compelled to tell complete strangers about our accident so that they will understand why I’m still breastfeeding a toddler who can speak and undo my bra at the same time. My pediatrician assures me she will break the habit herself before she reaches kindergarten. That is my only hope because I broke her once and I don’t have the heart to do it again.
