Lactation nation

THERE WERE many times, in my early days of breast-feeding, when I seriously wondered how our species had survived. Those dreamy videos they showed us at the hospital had little to do with the reality most new moms I knew were living. Ours was a world of pain, of gel pads and nipple shields and hissing mechanical pumps that looked like something out of a Terry Gilliam movie.

Hence, I assembled a list of things I wish the breast-feeding advocates had told me, from ''If it hurts a lot, there's something wrong" to ''Ignore what we said about babies feeding every three hours for 20 minutes. Nothing that a newborn does is regular." But what I most wish I had heard, from someone in authority, was: ''A little formula won't kill her!"

Now, I'm not a doctor. I'm also not an antifeminist or a squeamish breast-feeding opponent. I'm a relatively sensible working mom who nursed her now-19-month-old daughter for a year-and I wouldn't have lasted two months, I'm convinced, if there hadn't been some formula involved.

Yet if you've met any lactation advocates, you'll know they preach a gospel of absolutes. The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends breast-feeding exclusively-no formula, no jarred peas-for the first six months of a baby's life. The lactation literature, posted in maternity centers and on countless websites, treats breast-feeding as a slippery slope of supply-and-demand: Drop one feeding and, soon enough, the spigot will run dry.

The breast-feeding establishment also suggests, quite inaccurately, that infant formula is akin to poison. In 2004, the federal government aired TV ads promoting exclusive breast-feeding; one showed a pregnant woman riding a mechanical bull. ''You wouldn't take risks before your baby's born," the ad said. ''Why start after?"

. . .

New mothers, hormonal and sleep-deprived, are particularly suggestible. As I was when my daughter, at 4 weeks old, decided to decline the breast in late afternoons. This violated every rule of infant behavior I had been taught, so for nearly two weeks I fought with her, lost, sat on the couch, and cried.

My husband, on the phone from work, kept trying to be helpful. ''Just give her some pumped milk," he would say.

''But we don't have a big supply," I'd sob, ''and I don't want to run out."

''If we run out, we'll give her some formula," he'd say.

''No! I can't!"

No matter how many times we had the conversation, he couldn't pierce my postpartum haze. Neither could my mother, who, like most American women in the early '70s, hadn't breast-fed her children. ''You were formula-fed as a baby," she kept repeating, ''and you went to Harvard."

So for help, I turned to the world of lactation consultants, a fervent subculture that deserves much credit for making breast-feeding more common. They've worked for lactation rooms in workplaces and for laws to protect women who nurse in public. The ones I met were nurturing, encouraging, and helpful; one of them drove to my house on a Saturday morning in a rainstorm.

But they also gave suggestions that, even in my befuddled state, seemed highly incompatible with modern life. ''Don't give the baby a pacifier or she'll get 'nipple confusion,"' they'd say. Or ''Don't give her a bottle. Let her lap pumped milk from a cup, like a kitten."

The hard line, apparently, stems from a sense that modern women, selfish and cowed, will only breast-feed if they're scared. But isn't it possible that a softer approach would work? In my own giddy pregnancy days, I barely thought twice about breast-feeding. Once I'd learned that breast milk reduced the risk of babies' illnesses and allergies, I was sold.

The problem, for many women, isn't concept, it's execution. And it's here that a little moderation might help. Breast-feeding, after all, has historically been a matter of compromise: Women have long shared nursing duties in the village, or hired wet nurses. I wonder how many more women today wouldn't quit if they were simply told that ''most of the time" is good enough?

I was on the verge of giving up when I went to my obstetrician's office for a six-week postpartum checkup. The doctors and nurses-all mothers themselves-offered the same advice: Give her some formula. It won't kill her!

And it didn't.

Joanna Weiss is a reporter for the Living/Arts section of the Globe. E-mail weiss@globe.com.