Monday, February 15, 2016

My pump, my frenemy

I cannot think of another word more fitting to describe my breast pump than “frenemy.”  It has been an inseparable companion for a full, blessed year after having each of my children.  And at the same time it has also been a cumbersome inconvenience that has ruled my life for what often feels like far too long.  I have embraced it and cursed it, begrudgingly lugged it around, and marveled at its functionality.  I’ve desperately searched for an electrical outlet, only to end up willing the battery pack to buy me another 10 minutes.  Just this time, oh miracle of engineering you.  I love you.  I hate you.  Oh please don’t let me forget to bring you with me.  I wish I could leave you at home.


Why do it?  If I find it to be such a pain, then why bother?  It’s simple:  I just plain love nursing.  And thankfully, my babies always have as well, so it has worked for us.  I couldn’t care less if other people nurse or use formula, or give their babies goat milk or coconut milk, or milk derived from any other source, or heck, Fresca (do they still make Fresca?! Man, I bet the babies would love some Fresca).  And while I love nursing, I also love my job.  And I love the occasional freedom of being away from my child for more than 3 hours.   So….enter the pump: the single most magical and hated monstrosity for many a woman of child bearing age.


This little frenemy of mine has followed me to multiple states for both business and pleasure.  I’ve pumped in every office building my employer has in this town, as well as countless days in my own office (chair against the non-locking door, swirling in a sea of panic when someone knocked).  I’ve pumped in cars, on buses and airplanes, in the airport, in bathroom stalls, and in parking lots.  I’ve ducked out of weddings and funerals, planned meetings around my pump schedule, and dealt with the fact that I often just couldn’t plan around it.  I’ve filled the freezer with carefully labeled bags of liquid gold, and faithfully (with the assistance of my husband) gotten out the supply to thaw for the next day.


So today, as I recently celebrated the first birthday of another child, I also celebrate the ceremonial packing away of the pump.  I celebrate and reflect because I know there are many other mommas out there carting around their own frenemy, stressing about supply and mastitis and plugged ducts, and wondering if their next destination will accommodate the need to pump.  I know you, sweet mommas.  I know your challenges and worries, and I see the sacrifices you make.  I know you’re worried about what you eat and drink, constantly monitoring how it impacts that precious babe.  I know you’re afraid to take Tylenol, even though they say it’s safe.  I see you glancing at the clock, calculating the time to the next feeding and trying to recall how much milk is in the fridge at home to determine whether you can have just a few sips of precious red wine with dinner.  I applaud you for sticking with it, when it was so easy to give up so many times.  And whether you nursed for 2 weeks or 2 years, whether you gave your baby only breastmilk or 20% breastmilk, you did it.  It’s hard on your body, and it’s hard on you.  I get that.  Stop and take a minute to pat yourself on the back.  I will even allow myself that luxury today.  Damn girl, you done good.

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