And all those folks would be wrong. The worst sound in the world is the wheezing suck of the Medela breast pump.
Remember the principal in Forest Gump who bangs Mrs. Gump because Mister Gump was on vacation? The sound the principal makes = Medela breast pump.
HEEEEE HEEEE HEEEEE HEEEEE HEEEEE HEEEEE HEEEE HEEEEE HEEEEE HEEEEE
HEEEEE HEEEE HEEEEE HEEEEE HEEEEE HEEEEE HEEEE HEEEEE HEEEEE HEEEEE
Calm Yo Tits
I breastfed my daughter, Ruby, for 18 months. It was tough at the beginning, because she wasn’t properly latching which meant I wasn’t properly producing. The nurses at my hospital were in a tough position, because they knew how badly I wanted to nurse. Do they encourage supplementing with formula, knowing it might send you over the edge because you are also dealing with a raging case of post-partum anxiety? Or do they offer you solutions—solutions that are kind of nuts—but still solutions because you desperately want to succeed? There is no right answer, which is why breastfeeding is so fraught.
Before supplementing, the nurses at my hospital recommended I try pumping and giving my daughter the milk in a cup to avoid nipple confusion. She was 8 days old.
In. A. Cup.
— Amy (@BlessAmysHeart) March 2, 2018
In the end, they loaned me a professional grade breast pump which helped me produce more milk. I tried the cup which did not work (like, duh), and Ruby’s dad was calm and helped talk me off the ledge countless times. Ruby figured out the latch and she started to thrive, becoming a satisfied, plush chunk-a-monk.
I returned the loaned breast pump, bought my own Medela off Craig’s List, and started to work on my STASH.
The Stash
The stash is everything to a nursing mom. It’s extra milk. And having extra milk is freedom. If you have a stash, you can take a break. It allows you to be away from the succubus baby. It’s peace of mind that you store in little plastic ziploc bags. There is a reason they call it “liquid gold,” not just because gold is valuable but because people used to kill other people in their quest for that precious metal.
You touch my milk, I will fucking end you.
Tully Looks Scary AF
I don’t like horror movies. I avoided watching Get Out until a few weeks ago, finally feeling obligated since I had seen every other Oscar nominee, including that movie about a banging a fish.
Last week, a new trailer dropped for the Sundance darling Tully. It’s the story of a frazzled stay-at-home, pregnant mom who hires a nanny to help make life with young kids a bit easier. Written by Diablo Cody and starring Charlize Theron, Tully should be my jam, but it’s not. Because Tully is a horror movie.
At the 00:18 mark, after a nighttime pumping session, Mom sets down the bag of milk, which falls over and spills because she forget to seal it. I gasped. I recoiled. It shook me to the core.
Got Milk?
The person who coined the phrase, “It’s no use crying over spilled milk,” never had to pump through mastitis or while sitting in a toilet stall because her office refused to offer a clean, private spot for breastfeeding mothers. This person has never been forced by the TSA* to taste their expressed milk to prove they aren’t working for ISIS.
The topic of breastfeeding is a war zone. I am very much in the “you do you” camp, knowing that in the actual moment, I was a complete crazy person trying to make it work for my daughter. I was exhausted, smug, and unreasonable as I whipped out my engorged tit to feed my kid. Her crying spiked my anxiety, and my boob was the best pacifier in the world. It was my own version of attachment parenting: attach her to me so my panicking would end.
I know that part of my commitment to breastfeeding was playing into the celebrity culture idea that breastfeeding meant the baby weight would melt way. Eating-Disorder-Amy glommed onto that like a pit bull. Antibodies and free food are great, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say fitting back into my jeans wasn’t a big driver, the irony being I didn’t lose a pound until after she weaned.
PTitsSD
A lot of that time, those early months, I don’t remember. My brain is protecting itself. But it’s not all bad. I’m still obsessed with my daughter’s little heels and ankles, which I would rub while she fed. The smell of her head. The weight of her on my lap. Of course, you can get all that with giving your baby a bottle. The most important thing about feeding the baby is feeding the baby. Did your baby thrive? Yes? Well done, mamma.
If you want to breastfeed, good luck. If you need to pump, do not be ashamed of what you use to relax and help with your letdown. I listened to Howard Stern. And if you do pump, for God’s sake! Seal the damn bag before walking away.
*I was lucky in that TSA never bothered me about my stash when I traveled. And big shoutout to the TSA of Providence, my home airport, who were always sweet, kind, and reasonable.
