The worst part about being a working mom right now is the pumping. Oh, how I hate the pumping. Three times a day, like clockwork, I have to take off my top (or, if it’s a dress I strip down to my underwear, so that’s great), hook on a strapless bra that has legit holes over my nipples, and attach myself to a machine that sucks the milk out of me for 15-20 minutes. The sound of the machine haunts my dreams. Woosha, woosha, drip, drip, drip. I have pumping anxiety where I am petrified I won’t produce enough, so now I even take herbal supplements that make my pee smell like maple syrup. Fenugreek, what up! Pumping is a straight up nightmare. I can’t even imagine having to do it in a job that wouldn’t give me the privacy or the convenience of doing this three times a day. How on earth do waitresses pump? I mean it takes 10 fucking minutes just to set up all the damn parts and another 10 minutes to dismantle the thing and clean it. It’s exhausting! And HEAVEN FORBID I spill a single droplet of milk. I have never been so protective over liquid in my life. The entire train ride home consists of me obsessively checking the cooler to make sure the lids are on correctly so nothing is spilling. I think if a bottle spilled on the way home I would drop to my knees on the F train and cry. NO DROP LEFT BEHIND.
I know this is the part where some moms decide to supplement with formula, and I totally understand why. I don’t judge you at all, I never would. For me, because I am a stubborn mule more than anything, I am determined to make this work. I love nursing my daughter too much to let the annoyance of the pump get in the way of that. When I get home and she smiles at me and nuzzles into my chest is just the greatest feeling in the world. After a busy day of working and commuting, just laying there with her is so relaxing and worth it, which is why I become Bessie the cow hooked up to the machine on a daily basis. And the fact that I’m back in my pre pregnancy jeans thanks to nursing obviously doesn’t hurt either.