Pay at the pump
An excerpt from The Parent Trip
In more than one awe-inspiring video shown in Prenatal Prep, we watched as a newborn babe wormed its way up its new mom’s belly and located its intended food source. By sheer instinct and fundamental need, these intrepid creatures were able to engage in the act of nursing that is one of nature’s most beautiful and profound.
Pumping breast milk, on the other hand, is about as organic and intuitive as watching a monster truck rally on TV while downing a bag of Doritos.
The impetus for engaging in this perverted practice is essentially to stockpile milk in the event you will be separated from your babe, whether for planned or unplanned reasons. Plus, prevailing wisdom goes, pumping aids in stabilizing your milk supply (and I foolishly thought this was the baby’s job). Finally, having an extra stash of milk allows partners, babysitters and other family members the privilege of participating in the joys of feeding. Since I have the distinct luxury of working from home when I do resume working, and since I have no immediate plans for taking off on a solo stint across South America, I don’t anticipate a high demand for this substitute food supply. Nevertheless I spring for the Mercedes of breast pumps, the Medela Pump in Style, because if I’m going to engage is this bizarre ritual I definitely want to do it “in Style.”
Another bit of faulty logic suggests that having bottled breast milk on hand allows mom to get some much-needed rest while dad (or her “parenting partner” or whatever the PC term is these days for the may-or-may-not-be-related person of undetermined gender who is equally responsible for the baby) takes over a feeding or two. What this theory fails to address is the fact that mom’s body doesn’t get the memo to not produce milk during the sudden window of proposed sleep, so she’s awake in dripping discomfort anyway. Does it make any sense whatsoever to artificially drain your breasts with an unloving appliance while your tot grudgingly suckles a bottle in the next room? Sure, you have another bottle of liquid gold when you’re done, in most cases exactly the amount that the baby just downed. I’m no math wiz, but it’s pretty clear that the net result is a big, fat zero. Once again, I question the sanity of the people who are coming up with these parenting theories.
Still I do it. At least, I try. (Because I could get hit by a truck or struck by lightening and never mind the fact that I, along with millions of other semi-normal people on the planet, was given nothing but formula as an infant, my child is getting the real deal if it kills me—which at this moment I suspect it just might.)
The maiden voyage is terrifying. I sequester myself in my abandoned office and assemble the various pump parts, eyeing the funnel-shaped vacuum attachments with great suspicion. I place one of the cones over one of my breasts and hold it there while I use the other hand to turn the machine on. There are five settings to choose from, so I start at one, the lowest. The machine makes a strange gurgling sound, but I don’t feel any sort of tug from the funnel. Gingerly I take the other funnel and begin moving it toward my other breast. When it comes within an inch of my flesh, the funnel seems to leap out of my hand and latch onto my nipple with the force of one of those high-end European vacuum cleaners.
I watch in horror as it draws my nipple out until it is approximately eight feet long. Much like those labor contractions, it slowly subsides, only to be replaced by an identical drag on the other side. I desperately want to turn the machine down (which is not an option) or off, but I’m afraid if I let go of the funnels my breast tissue will get completely sucked into the motor.
I watch this horror show for a good three or four minutes, but nothing seems to be happening. Finally, tiny banana-yellow droplets of syrupy goo begin appearing on the necks of the funnels. They don’t seem to be accumulating into anything resembling the milk I am hoping will fill the bottles attached to the torturous contraption, but at least it’s something.
For twenty minutes I sit and patiently allow my body to be suckled by a machine. At the end of this interminable period, I am rewarded with a whopping four ounces of milk, three of which disconcertingly come from one boob.
“Almost everyone has an overproducer and an underproducer,” my sister informs me. In my case, she’s dead right. Every time I pump, I get the 3-to-1 ratio, with the bulk consistently coming from the same enthusiastic side. We nickname my breasts “over” and “under” and I’m relieved to know that this is normal (the uneven production, not necessarily the naming of one’s mammaries).
As time passes, pumping becomes more comfortable and I manage to work my way up to the higher settings. Eventually, it gets to the point where I can flip the switch to setting five, plunk the funnels down simultaneously and even use my other hand to peruse the latest Pottery Barn catalog while the thing does its job.
I manage to amass a decent store of milk, but it never feels like enough. It all goes into the freezer, because the guidelines for how long breast milk stays “fresh” in the refrigerator are wildly inconsistent (anywhere from 6 hours to 8 days) and it’s really only there for emergencies. Even in the freezer—if you use a frequently-opened double-door model, you’re looking at a shelf-life of three months, max (six months if you have a drop-in freezer used exclusively for this purpose and keep the temperature set below zero degrees, which doesn’t everyone?).
When the hand-written expiration dates on my meager bags of frozen milk begin to close in, my anxiety escalates. Throwing one out is harder than burying a beloved family pet. I have to face the fact that you really can only get so much blood from a stone. If I perish tomorrow, the frozen stash might last two weeks. Sophie would still need several months of formula before she could switch over to regular cows milk (which doesn’t seem so regular after all). But since “anything is better than nothing,” I forge on, somewhat unenthusiastically.
At one point, I notice something strange. The repetitive whoosh-pull of the pump’s motor seems to sound like a word or words. It’s hard to make out at first, but then I hear it with crystal clarity: “Puuuuuuuuuuump-ing, puuuuuuuuuuuuuuump-ing, puuuuuuuuuuuuump-ing,” it says, over and over. Like the famous Little Engine, my thoughtful, encouraging mechanical friend is telling itself—and me—that we can do this!
I have heard about women who go off the deep end after delivery, so I mention this to my friend Pam. “Oh my pump talked to me, too,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Did it say puuuuuuuuuuuump-ing over and over?” I ask eagerly.
“No, mine said ‘Be careful,’” she insists.
I look at my machine fondly, glad I didn’t accidentally buy the Pump in Angst model. That’s the last thing I need right now.