Pump and Run

In a panic last night when my breast pump stopped working. I was sure the poor old thing had given up the ghost when Christian walked by and gave it his version of the Fonzie tap. Amazingly, the magic touch got it right up and running again, avoiding a dilemma about whether to buy a new pump in what is very likely the homestretch of my nursing career.

I despise pumping on a number of levels. It brings back memories of Henry’s infancy when I returned to work at the French Embassy in DC (worst job evah) and used to slink off three times a day to pump in a conference room or vacant office. Everybody in my division looked at me like I was some kind of freak walking down the hallway with my pump, sterilizing my accessories in the office microwave, etc. Brings to mind an article I once read in Le Monde about how French women don’t really breastfeed (apparently it puts a crimp in their identities as independent women—um, yeah…). Anyway, mine is one of the “pump in style” type contraptions that looks like a large shoulder bag. I used to lug that thing on my nightmarish commute (involving automobiles, multiple buses and, often, a 30-minute walk. I swear I have permanent rub marks on my neck from the strap.

That said, it was easier to brave the frowning frenchies with pump in hand than a rowdy preschooler who perceives that I’m (literally) tied down and exploits the situation to get up to no good. These days, I pump once of twice a day to get some milk for little Coco’s oatmeal, give her some practice with a trainer cup and build up a small emergency supply in the freezer. I try to time the pumping session so that it takes place during Hank’s nap, but of course it doesn’t always work out as planned. Am occasionally able to pump before bed, a couple hours after Coco goes down, but don’t usually find it very productive—guess my boobs are as exhausted as the rest of me by the time 11 o’clock rolls around.

The biggest drag about the pump, though, are the quantities of little bottles and plastic parts that need to be washed. All of this leads me to an even greater appreciation--despite all the minor annoyances (leaky boobs, blocked ducts, having to stop the car all the time on road trips, etc.)—of the beautiful simplicity of breastfeeding. Nothing to clean, nothing to refrigerate, nothing to carry. That said, I’m feeling a little French in admitting that the end is in sight and I’m looking forward to being detached. I’m committed to going a year per the recommendations of the baby docs and will enjoy all that oxytocin to the fullest, but after that I’ll be shutting down this popsicle stand and Co will move on to goats milk so mama can consume a bottle of Champagne and a couple of full-caf americanos. Just hoping the pump will hang in there for a few more months…