I knew my first child would have a lot of her dad's personality when, 6 days after my due date, she still hadn't arrived.

When she finally decided to come, I naively allowed the medical professionals around me to medicate me very early in the process, slowing labor to a crawl. Everything worked out well, however; my 8 lb, 13 oz daughter latched like a pro almost from the beginning, and my milk came in with a vengeance before we were discharged 48 hours later.

I knew, however, from this experience that I would not allow an epidural with the next child -- at least, not until 6 cm dilation, when I was sure I would chicken out and beg for drugs.

Five-and-a-half years later, my second child looked to be following in his big sister's footsteps -- at least in regards to tardiness. This time, though, my OB wasn't willing to let us wait it out. I did not have gestational diabetes, but I was, to quote my OB, "very sweet." I am small in stature but I had a history of delivering a large baby. Given this information, my doctor feared I might have trouble delivering vaginally if we let my baby stay put (and grow) as long as he might want to. It was decided that we would induce at 4 days past my due date.

I wasn't thrilled, but I wanted an emergency C-section even less, and at least this way I was almost guaranteed that my favorite OB in the practice would be the one delivering the baby.

I was hooked up to the pitocin drip on March 14, 2001, at about 8 am. A few hours later, the contractions were extremely powerful, and I was certain labor had progressed quite a bit. We paged the nurse for a check and discovered that I was only at 3 cm! I burst into tears. I had been in what seemed like strong, active labor for hours, and had run through most of the techniques for getting through labor without meds, and here the nurse was telling me I wasn't even technically in active labor!

I knew it would take a while to get hooked up to the epidural pump, and I knew with the pain I was already in there was no way I would make it to 6 cm without it. I told the nurse to get the anesthesiologist, and while I was waiting, how about a shot of Stadol?

The anesthesiologist was very busy. Almost an hour later, I still didn't have my epidural, but I did need to make yet another trip to the bathroom. With my wonderful husband's help, I made it without falling over in pain. But when I sat down, I realized I felt the need not to urinate, but to defecate. Remembering from childbirth class that this feeling might actually mean I was ready to deliver the baby, I began panting like a puppy dog and told my husband to get the nurse.

The baby was crowning!

But wait! I still want my epidural!

He was perfect... but by the time we got home, 48 hours later, on a Friday afternoon, I was starting to suspect things were not going well.

I didn't think his diapers were very wet, but I was being assured by all (over the phone) that diapers had improved amazingly in the 5 years between my children. Then, just before the pediatrician's office was to close for the weekend, I found what looked slightly like blood, and slightly like ground up red bricks in his diaper. (He is not circumcised.)

The doctor's office assured me (by phone) that he was fine -- that these were crystals often passed in the first few days after birth.

I knew they were wrong.

On Monday, I took him to the doctor's. They told me he was dehydrated and that I needed to start formula. I wanted to see an LC first, so they gave me the number of a lactation consultant to contact.

Sadly, after before-and-after weight checks, with trying for an hour to get him to nurse well, she confirmed that -- for whatever reason -- he wasn't getting milk from me. If I didn't give him formula soon, the doctor might put him in the hospital on an IV.

But I was a "proven milk producer," to quote my Lactation Consultant's notations on my chart. I had already successfully nursed a child into toddlerhood. What had gone wrong?

Was it the pitocin?
Was it the Sudafed I had been taking for my sinus headaches?
Was it the pacifier I'd found in his bassinet when the nursery had kept him an insanely long time and I went to get him?
Had they given him a bottle of sugar water or formula without my knowing it?
Or was something else going on?

I don't know for certain. But that evening, I cried as I made him his first bottle of formula (the hospital I delivered at did not believe in nipple confusion and forced its Lactation Consultants not to instruct parents in alternate feeding methods other than bottles), and we began an almost 2-month journey of building my supply and teaching him how to latch.

• Taking 3 capsules of fenugreek three times daily;

• Taking 3 capsules of blessed thistle three times daily;

• Putting my son to the breast at least 10-12 times daily;

• Following these nursing attempts (which typically went badly) with feeding him supplements by bottle;

• Following these supplementary feedings with 15 minutes of double-pumping using a Medela Classic rented pump;

• Praying the Rosary daily, wrapping my son’s tiny fist around the Crucifix, begging Mary for her intercession, hoping she'd help me ask her Son for the small miracle of being able to feed my son the way she had fed Him.

By the time I was done with one nurse-supplement-pump cycle, if I was lucky, I had 15 minutes to allow my nipples to rest before starting over again. And this friend had the nerve to tell me I wasn't trying hard enough?

But my hard work was paying off. Over a period of several weeks, we went from supplementing with 17 oz of formula daily to supplementing exclusively with pumped breastmilk. I was even producing a bit more than my son needed, and freezing a few ounces daily.

But now my son was almost 6 weeks old, and still wasn't nursing well directly from me. I had heard that this was a critical age -- a baby who wasn't latching well by that age never would. My LC gently tried to help me get my mind around the idea that I might need to become an exclusively-pumping mom.

I hated the idea. I tried to accept the possibility, but I kept putting my son to the breast a few times a day, taking him to nurse on the bed in his big sister's warm, bright, friendly room, rather than in the other places where I felt stressed by the memory of past failures. Sometimes, he would nurse well. These times kept hope alive for me.

One night, around the time he was two months old, I was feeding him his bedtime bottle, snuggled in our king-sized bed with my husband and daughter, while my husband read the children bedtime stories. He kept spitting the bottle nipple out. I kept trying to get my son to take it. Finally, he turned his head toward my chest and rooted -- so obviously asking to nurse, rather than be bottle fed: "Mom! Get that cold, fake silicone thing out of my face! I want fresh-squeezed!"

That was the turning point. It still wasn't perfect, and we had more issues to contend with such as a dairy sensitivity. But from that night on, he became a fully breastfed baby, so much so that he chose to take only minimal breastmilk by bottle when he started daycare, holding out instead for me.

He is almost 3 years old at this writing, and still nurses several times a day. In the grand scheme of things, 2 months is not a long time. I am so glad I stuck with it and have been able to give him the gift of nursing.