When feeding isn't simple

I really thought that once all the wires and probes were off Tulla’s head—and we were finally home—everything would settle back into normal.

I thought she’d go right back to nursing.

Tulla loves to prove me wrong.

She was clearly hungry. She rooted, fussed, asked to eat… and the second I tried to nurse her, she’d fall asleep. Then she’d wake up ten minutes later acting starving again. She was spitting up constantly, which didn’t make sense, and I remember sitting there for 45 minutes trying to feed her—only to feel like we were right back at the beginning almost immediately after.

I was exhausted. Not just tired—bone-deep, end-of-my-rope exhausted. And I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

I called her pediatrician, but they didn’t have any suggestions. I knew all the usual tricks (and honestly, I’ve learned enough “feeding tricks” to fill an entire post—tell me if you want that one). But none of them touched what was happening with Tulla.

The first question other parents asked was about a tongue tie. And did you know there are also lip ties and cheek ties? I learned a lot very quickly, but none of it ended up being the answer for her. I had her checked by multiple providers—no ties.

One thing I’ll say, though: if you suspect a tie, consider having a speech pathologist or pediatric dentist evaluate your baby. They specialize in the mouth and can catch things that others might miss.

After another one of our many walk-in visits, I talked with a lactation consultant. We decided to try a nipple shield. If you’ve ever used one, you know they’re awkward and fiddly and not exactly the dreamy nursing experience you picture when you’re pregnant.

But it worked.

With the shield, Tulla latched. She nursed. It felt like a tiny miracle—like I could finally exhale. Goodbye bottles, hello road back to nursing. I was so happy to have that connection back… even if it came with silicone and a learning curve.

And then, a few weeks later, I noticed orange spots in her diaper—uric acid crystals.

Back to the doctor we went.

She had lost weight again.

Either she was working too hard to get the volume she needed, or she wasn’t getting enough milk.

And suddenly all that hope I’d been holding onto felt fragile. I had worked so hard to get back to nursing, but it wasn’t enough. The doctor recommended supplementing with bottles again.

I told myself I could handle that. I was confident in my supply. But the first time I pumped, I got less than an ounce.

I panicked.

My supply has never been an issue. Never. And yet there I was, staring at almost nothing, feeling like my body had betrayed me at the exact moment my baby needed me most. I couldn’t stop the spiral: Maybe I’m the problem. Maybe I’m missing something. Maybe I’m failing her.

So I went into full survival mode. Power pumping. Hydrating. Doing everything I could to convince my body to ramp back up. What Tulla needs, Tulla gets—and my baby needed my milk.

I spent hours pouring over blogs and reels and every scrap of feeding advice I could find. Could her delivery be related? Maybe. Could something else be going on? What could we do?

And then her bottle latch got worse.

You could see her head bobbing while she ate. Milk leaked out of the corner of her mouth. I could pull the bottle right out without any resistance. It didn’t look right. It didn’t feel right.

So I went back to the lactation consultant.

Of course, that day Tulla didn’t cooperate. She didn’t really show what I was seeing at home. The consultant looked in her mouth, noticed the weak latch, and said, “That’s interesting.”

That was it.

“I find that very interesting.”

And I remember thinking: Interesting doesn’t give me a direction. Interesting doesn’t help me feed my baby.

Something was wrong, and I was getting nowhere, so I asked for a referral to speech therapy. I wasn’t done fighting for her.

And of course—because this is how it always goes—at the speech therapist’s office she took a bottle perfectly. No spilling. No struggle. Like she was trying to make me look dramatic.

I felt like the crazy mom inventing problems that didn’t exist.

But the speech therapist was kind. She said it was encouraging—because it meant Tulla could take a bottle correctly. She suspected reflux and said ENT might want to do a swallow study. We talked about thickening feeds with a little oatmeal to help the milk stay down. She also pointed out that Tulla has a high-arched palate, but she didn’t think there was much else she could do.

Another door closed.

More referrals, but still no answers.

ENT said the structures in her mouth and throat looked normal—formed correctly—but that things weren’t firing in sync in her throat. And their recommendation?

Speech therapy.

It felt like we were going in circles. Like every appointment ended with the same polite shrug, while I went home with the same baby who still couldn’t eat the way she needed to.

And I remember sitting there thinking: I don’t need perfect. I don’t need easy. I just need a path forward. Because feeding your baby shouldn’t feel like a mystery you have to solve alone. I had already spent three months fighting to get her help.

Once again, we ended up right back where we started... the ER