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07/11/2007
"You didn't go outside like that?", my husband asked me. I had just popped out onto the porch to chat with my neighbor, who was nine months pregnant (and was pulling the garbage pails to the curb! Where was her husband?). Just prior to this, I had been pumping. I looked down. My nightgown was still open, and I was a bit exposed.
Hm. I had to remind myself that this was inappropriate, because in reality, I wasn't feeling it.
I have never been a successful nursing mother, but I have twice been a pumper. I am a fairly modest person, but in those pumping months, I never had a moment of feeling private about my breasts. I think perhaps pumping even more than nursing engenders a sort of barnyard lifestyle. A nursing mom can discretely pull out her nipple and snuggle it into her baby's waiting mouth, and no one is the wiser. But when you're attaching plastic cones to your udders, hitting a switch, setting off a noisy piston, and trying not to scream, "Mother of &;$%#, that hurts!", you can't pretend you're doing anything than milking yourself. "Hands-free" pumping bras only up the freak factor.
And all the while, if your situation is like mine, you're struggling with the guilt of having failed at nursing, of pumping instead of cuddling your baby, of supplementing. And you're sleep-deprived.
Pumping makes you weird.
No one was safe from me. So many times did I spy my neighbor walking his dog from the picture window by my kitchen sink, as I soaped my pump parts, with my still flaming sore breasts standing at attention. (It's his fault I lost one of those little white plastic discs down the drain that time, and shouted that cuss word with my mother in the other room).
Over those months my poor husband found many chores to complete in our kitchen or on our second floor so as to avoid hearing me in my milking chair call out to whoever would listen, "Hey! Lefty is ahead! That's odd!"
My sister, who lived with us after I had my first baby, had it the worst, because her job was to hold my son while I pumped, and I preferred that she keep him nearby. Over time, I adopted a strange, witch-like persona who would emerge as the piston worked its magic, and at random intervals I'd cackle, "Milk, miiiiilk me dugs, MIIIIIILK!" I'd do this a lot.
But that's all many months past, now. I know nursing mothers often have a hard time when their little ones wean, but quite naturally, I've never heard of a pumper regretting last call at the pumping party. I'm glad I got some of the good stuff into my babies, but I'm thrilled not to be hooked up to the tubes any more. On both occasions, sending the pump away felt very satisfying.
If you find yourself needing to be a pumping mommy, either part time at work, or full time because of nursing issues, let me congratulate you on doing your best to give your baby a healthy start in life. And if you find that pumping starts to alter your personality (or even give you additional ones), don't worry. When your pumping stint concludes, your persona (like your bosom) will more or less return to its old normal state. I no longer flash the neighbors, and Milky the Witch has not made an appearance in many months.
Hm. I had to remind myself that this was inappropriate, because in reality, I wasn't feeling it.
I have never been a successful nursing mother, but I have twice been a pumper. I am a fairly modest person, but in those pumping months, I never had a moment of feeling private about my breasts. I think perhaps pumping even more than nursing engenders a sort of barnyard lifestyle. A nursing mom can discretely pull out her nipple and snuggle it into her baby's waiting mouth, and no one is the wiser. But when you're attaching plastic cones to your udders, hitting a switch, setting off a noisy piston, and trying not to scream, "Mother of &;$%#, that hurts!", you can't pretend you're doing anything than milking yourself. "Hands-free" pumping bras only up the freak factor.
And all the while, if your situation is like mine, you're struggling with the guilt of having failed at nursing, of pumping instead of cuddling your baby, of supplementing. And you're sleep-deprived.
Pumping makes you weird.
No one was safe from me. So many times did I spy my neighbor walking his dog from the picture window by my kitchen sink, as I soaped my pump parts, with my still flaming sore breasts standing at attention. (It's his fault I lost one of those little white plastic discs down the drain that time, and shouted that cuss word with my mother in the other room).
Over those months my poor husband found many chores to complete in our kitchen or on our second floor so as to avoid hearing me in my milking chair call out to whoever would listen, "Hey! Lefty is ahead! That's odd!"
My sister, who lived with us after I had my first baby, had it the worst, because her job was to hold my son while I pumped, and I preferred that she keep him nearby. Over time, I adopted a strange, witch-like persona who would emerge as the piston worked its magic, and at random intervals I'd cackle, "Milk, miiiiilk me dugs, MIIIIIILK!" I'd do this a lot.
But that's all many months past, now. I know nursing mothers often have a hard time when their little ones wean, but quite naturally, I've never heard of a pumper regretting last call at the pumping party. I'm glad I got some of the good stuff into my babies, but I'm thrilled not to be hooked up to the tubes any more. On both occasions, sending the pump away felt very satisfying.
If you find yourself needing to be a pumping mommy, either part time at work, or full time because of nursing issues, let me congratulate you on doing your best to give your baby a healthy start in life. And if you find that pumping starts to alter your personality (or even give you additional ones), don't worry. When your pumping stint concludes, your persona (like your bosom) will more or less return to its old normal state. I no longer flash the neighbors, and Milky the Witch has not made an appearance in many months.
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