If you told me during my pregnancy that I would have to do a triple feed program on my baby, a) I would have had zero idea what you were referring to, and b) I’d probably respond with something ignorant like, “but I’m planning to breastfeed!” I didn’t realize that “combo feeding,” or breastfeeding *and* formula feeding, was a thing; I just thought you chose one path or the other. I had no idea that “exclusive pumpers” or moms who pump milk and feed it to their babies via a bottle was a thing. I always just thought people pumped milk for their babies when they could not physically be there (as in, they’re going back to work). I didn’t know that “breastfeeding” referred to both nursing *as well as* bottle feeding breast milk. I really didn’t know much about any of this stuff at all despite having taken an online breastfeeding course from a reputable source, as well as reading endless articles and blogs on breastfeeding. I thought “latch” was the key to ensuring breastfeeding success; I had no idea what poor milk transfer meant. I had no idea that inadequate milk removal, either via a baby’s sucking or a breast pump, could torpedo your milk supply, nor did I fully understand the “supply and demand” process that a new mom’s milk supply would be determined by.

I really didn’t understand any of this, and I’m scrambling to read and learn more about it all now, which may be too late to recover my milk supply. I have no idea. But I guess that’s what it means to be a mom: always doubting yourself, always feeling like you’re failing or that you are inadequate, always feeling like you can do more. There are social media memes for pumping moms, saying that you shouldn’t measure your love in ounces (of milk), but somehow, that’s how I’m feeling about myself and my crappy output via this breast pump I feel like I am a slave to.

The job of a mother never ends; it doesn’t end when you shut down your computer for the day or close out Slack or put your phone on silent. It literally goes on 24 hours a day with no break. It feels like the little “me” time I have is in the shower, massaging or stretching my arms and hands, and even looking out the window to take deep breaths and remind myself that I’m doing the best job I can despite the little sleep I am getting. I hate pumping, but pumping is the only way I can ensure my baby gets breast milk, so the pumping journey continues.

A few days after giving birth to Kaia, my aunt messaged to say that she was putting together a care package of dried ingredients to send to me. This was so that I could make the ji jiu tang, or chicken wine soup that is a well known and popular Chinese postpartum soup. She said that I likely didn’t have time to go down to Chinatown to buy all the ingredients, so she wanted to save me some time and effort and send them over. She obviously could not send over the chicken or the Chinese rice wine, but she sent all the dried ingredients: dried shiitake mushrooms, wood ear mushrooms, lily buds, and Chinese red dates. In addition to these, she also sent some chocolate, a random bag of dried lentils (that my mom apparently asked her to pack me… don’t ask), and a carefully double bagged ziplock bag of thinly sliced ginger soaked in Chinese sweet black vinegar. She messaged and called several times to let me know how sorry she was that she couldn’t be here in person to make this as well as other Chinese postpartum dishes for me, but she hoped that I could make the soup myself with the ingredients she sent. “Don’t forget the ginger!” she said. Ginger, if you didn’t already know, is in pretty much EVERY Chinese postpartum dish. The black vinegar-soaked ginger is in place of the Chinese black vinegar/pork knuckle soup that is a well known Cantonese postpartum dish that moms or grandmas will make for their female family members after giving birth. She told me to eat a few pieces of the soaked ginger each day to help my body recover.

Other than the chicken, the only thing I needed to run out and buy was rice wine, so I went to a local wine shop to pick some up. Unfortunately, they didn’t have Chinese wine and only had Japanese rice wine, so I got a bottle of that (after texting my aunt to confirm this wouldn’t change the flavor or essence), soaked all the dried ingredients to rehydrate them, and dumped them into my Dutch oven to prepare. She was right: it really was easy to prepare and didn’t need too much precision. And when the soup was simmering over the stove, a very familiar savory, warming scent wafted through the apartment, and I realized that I’d had this soup many times growing up. When I took a taste of it, it was like I was immediately transported home into my grandma’s kitchen: she made some of the most delicious Chinese soups, many of which required hours and hours of simmering chicken and pork bones down to nothing. I immediately felt comforted and knew I would enjoy every spoonful of this. Chris enjoyed the soup, as well.

In my family, food is basically a love language, but I suppose that’s like most Asian families. Most of the time, they won’t tell you that they love you or care about you, but you know they care about you when they ask if you’ve eaten (then constantly add food to your plate until you are stuffed to the brim), and when they remember your favorite foods and ensure you have them when you come over to their home (or order them when out at a restaurant). You also know they love you when they prepare delicious, nourishing soups like this one for you, or when they so painstakingly soak hand cut and peeled ginger for hours for you and have it Priority-Mail shipped to get to you ASAP after giving birth, or when they insist that you have this soup for yourself and apologize endlessly for not being there in person to nourish you themselves in your delicate postpartum state. I felt so loved when I received the care package from my aunt, and I made sure to send her photos to get her seal of approval once I finished making the soup, as well.

“Smart girl!” she texted me back. “The soup looks very good! Now I’m going to make a big pot of it to eat, too!”

I was devastated at Kaia’s doctor’s appointment today when we found out that she still wasn’t gaining weight. I was so upset that I started crying and immediately just thought something was wrong with my breast milk. My breast milk is poisoning my baby! I thought in my head. What the hell was wrong?

The RN/lactation consultant suspected that there were one of two problems that needed to be pinpointed: either I had low milk supply or the baby had a weak suck. Weak suck would mean poor milk transfer, which means that she wasn’t getting enough to eat, which would also mean that not enough milk was getting removed from my breasts to signal to my body to produce more milk. So it’s a bit of a chicken and egg situation. As a result, she strongly suggested we give her a higher fat formula as a supplement and start a triple feed plan: Every three hours, I would nurse her, then Chris would bottle feed her my expressed milk or formula, and then I would pump for 20 minutes. I get two nursing breaks and two pumping breaks, but this was definitely an intensive feeding plan. The idea behind this is 1) to get the baby eating and gaining enough weight to be on track, and 2) to get my breasts stimulated enough to produce enough milk for baby to consume.

It’s a plan I had no idea existed before, but it was stressful and so disappointing to hear that we needed to do this, at least until her next appointment a few days after Christmas. I thought about how intense and agonizing this would be if I didn’t have Chris or a night nurse or really any support, and how isolated I would feel. I always knew breastfeeding would be a journey, but I had no idea that it would be this time-intensive and completely out of my control. I always thought that if she latched properly, then it would all go well. I mean, that’s what all the breastfeeding articles and the breastfeeding class I took emphasized. No one told me about poor milk transfer or a weak suck and how that could be a potential problem, so I felt completely unprepared for this and thrown off guard. Why was I not aware of this before with all my research?? And I felt enraged thinking about this lack of emphasis as we left the doctor’s office. This is postpartum life. This is an introduction to motherhood for me.

If you live in New York City, chances are high that your living space has dry, dry air. This is especially problematic in the winter time, when you will likely have your heater on constantly, only exacerbating the dryness in your apartment. When I started living with Chris, my nose was so dry in the morning that he suggested I whip out the humidifier he had. Humidifiers in general are beasts because the average one will require constant cleaning of the base and the tank — usually once a week. And it’s not like it’s easy: there are usually tiny crevices all over the damn thing that you can’t get with a regular sponge or cleaning brush; you will actually need to take out Q-Tips — that’s right — Q-TIPS! That’s how small these spaces and nooks are. Plus, the filter cartridge will need to be replaced every 3-6 months depending on the manufacturer.

In a life pre-baby, Chris never, even once, cleaned our humidifier. I had to clean the frickin’ thing myself, adding vinegar to the base, cleaning it with a toothbrush, and cleaning the crevices of the tank with a Q-tip, once a week every week during the winter time. I always soaked the base with white vinegar for a few hours each weekend. It was always something I dreaded. However, now with a baby, her nostrils are very tiny and given she is a winter baby, a humidifier was definitely a must in our dry apartment. And so we whipped out the humidifier for her specifically. And what ended up happening? For the first time in over ten years together, my husband is actually cleaning the humidifier and being extremely meticulous. He can’t properly clean greasy dishes to this day, yet HE took out Q-Tips on his OWN to clean this tank! I was completely shocked when I saw him do it for the first time and all subsequent times, as I just assumed this was something I’d have to do.

Well, I guess it’s true what they say: men really do change once a baby is in the picture, some for the worse, and some, like my Chris, for the better. 🙂