My Breast Pump, My Frenemy

Disclaimer: While I find the whole pumping process annoying, cumbersome, and painful, I know that it helps my baby get breast milk when I’m away from him and for that I’m thankful. I’m also thankful my workplace allows me to pump in private. That said, I still hate pumping.

Another day in the office. I get to work, turn on my computer, grab some Mother’s Milk tea, convince myself I like the taste of black licorice and down that thing like it’s a shot and I’m 21 again, check a few emails, and settle in for the work day. Just as I start working on something that requires my full attention – something I’m writing or, on the worst days, a spreadsheet – it happens. I look at you, then at the clock, then back at you.

There you sit, a black bag hidden under my desk. You could be a footrest if I wasn’t so worried about sanitation. You could be a trash can if you weren’t already at max capacity filled with accessories, nursing covers, bags, bottles, creams, and a few bags of pretzels.

You always need me when I’m in the middle of something. It can’t be time to pump when I’m between projects, resisting the urge to give Facebook a quick peak, or organizing my files for the tenth time. No, it has to happen when I’m knee-deep in a deadline.

Because you have no respect for deadlines.

You know what else you don’t respect? Privacy. Time. Patience. And, let’s just be real here, Pumpster … you don’t even respect my body.

Nevertheless, I take you to the cold room designated for this duty. I spend at least five minutes fumbling with all your tubes, pieces, flanges, and cords. Then, wa-wa-wr… wa-wa-wr…

It’s like you’re mocking me. Your repetitive hums sound like curse words, drilling into me over and over.

I feel like a cow being led to the dairy room to be milked. It’s like I can hear my co-workers calling to each other as I make the long walk to the lactation room. Hook her up, boys, she’s ready to produce!

I hear a cow bell every three hours. I have considered making “Home on the Range” my ringtone.

I sit around half-naked, and it almost always ends in tears. And no, not from pain – although, that’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about. You make me cry because after a nice ten-minute pumping session, I’m ready to reap my rewards. I’m ready to see the miraculous amount of milk this dairy cow produced. But, it’s never enough. In fact, sometimes it’s nothing. Literally. Nothing.

You make me insecure. You make me anxious. You make me cry out with worry that my supply is gone forever.

You make me down yet another lactation cookie (or three, just to be sure). This whole post-baby-body struggle… yeah, you’re responsible for that.

The anger I have toward you is not unlike the anger I have toward whoever said not to cry over spilled milk. That person clearly has never become suddenly entangled in your unforgiving maze of tubes and power cords and dropped everything all over the floor.

Okay, okay. I’ve said a lot and you haven’t had a chance to defend yourself. I guess what I really should say is that you’re doing a good job. I don’t really hate you. At least, not that much. It’s just that you’re not my baby. You’re not soft and warm, and you don’t smell like Johnson & Johnson. You don’t smile at me, hold my hand, gaze into my eyes, or make sweet cooing noises. It’s hard to love you. It just is.

I don’t love the horrendous cycle of setting up, breaking down, washing parts, and lugging you around. But at the end of the day, I do love you.

I mean, you’re alright I guess.

I’ll see you again in three hours.