Yesterday was a bad pumping day. By that, I mean my supply has dipped this week - stress? dehydration? hormonal shift? who knows! On top of that supply drop, I groggily woke up in the morning to feed my baby and he only fed from one side. My poor left boob was left plump and untouched. Sounds hot, but when your other boob looks like a freshly flattened tire and your left boob looks like a botched boob job it’s really not that great. That’s when I decided to do my first pump of the morning. I’m prone to milk duct clogs, so it felt appropriate to make sure I pumped to prevent one. I sat around, oscillating my pump between let down mode and a regular pump, and then I made my way out of bed only to get caught up in putting away dishes. Before I knew it, I had been pumping for thirty minutes. A normal pumping session for me is around fifteen minutes so you can only imagine the FUHHHH sound I made once I realized how long it had been.

I pulled my pumps off without looking at them and when I put them on the counter they felt abnormally light. As I look down to see what I produced, I was saddened to see that both of my pump bottles were essentially empty. There was maybe a half ounce in each pump, and that was the start of a devastating pump day. I’m sure other pumping mothers can relate to the sorrow from low milk production after a long pumping session, yet we carry on. Reaching for what I call ‘my milk jug’ - a literal 32 ounce mason jar to pool all my day’s milk in - I grab it out of the dishwasher and pour my tiny drizzle of milk in. As I’m hovering over the dishwasher pouring my milk, my husband walks into the kitchen, looks at me and says “oh, those dishes are dirty…”

What. the. FAAAAHK. That’s what I want to scream at the top of my lungs, but alas, the kids were still sleeping. I think that’s what a lot of parenting is: learning how to manage your emotions as continued challenging moments hit you out of nowhere. So, instead of screaming I started crying. Just soft, consistent tears streaming down my face because I’m hit with a second wave of disappointment before the day even really begins. My first pump of the day? Now circling the drain when this all could’ve been solved with a little clean/dirty sign over the dishwasher. Note to self: invest in one of those ASAP.

fallinginsociety

A post shared by @fallinginsociety

The morning carries on, and I find myself putting a sticky note on the dishwasher. ‘DIRTY!!’ it says. At this point, both my husband and I know the dishwasher is dirty but I take this as retaliation to losing an ounce of my precious milk to a dirty bitch dish. We get the kids out the door, and I take a stroll down the street to walk from a coffee shop. I have about two and a half hours until my next pumping session. All I can do is what’s in my control: take a sunflower lecithin supplement, drink lots of water, and make sure I pump on time. One wild experience of a breastfeeding mom is seeing your boobs rapidly grow within a matter of hours as they fill with milk. Four hours passed as I worked from my little traveling computer, and then my chest feels restricted when I realized I forgot to set an alarm to pump. UGH. I rush myself through the city with the widest gait you ever did see. And if you saw me in the streets yesterday practically speed walking: no you didn’t. As I open the door to my home, I pet my dogs’ heads and let them know that they are super sweetie baby cuties and I missed them soooo much, then I rush to get my pump parts, sit down and start another pump session.

There’s a high level of relief that one experiences when you finally sit down to pump after you’re overdue. The let down happens and you can finally stop holding your breath. No more rookie mistakes now as I check that my nipples are aligned and my milk is flowing fine. It’s hard not to feel like a cow getting milked, only I actually get to feed my baby; major burn to the dairy industry #freethecows. So I sit, pump, lean back, close my eyes, and take a moment. Yes, I fell asleep. The exhaustion won that round, but luckily I only fell asleep for 20 minutes. All is seemingly well as I reach down to turn off the pump and see that my bottles are full with my liquid gold. As I sit back up from my slightly reclined position I feel moisture across my belly. The fuq? Of course, a good pumping session could not go without a minor hiccup. Milk had come out of my flange as I was leaned back. If it were a wet t-shirt contest I could’ve gotten at least fifth place.

The tragedy struck after the pump. I placed my two bottles of fresh milk on the counter, and as I reached for lids to cover them I knocked one full bottle across the counter. Milk, everywhere. In that moment I wanted to find a thick piece of card stock paper and just scoop it all back into the bottle. My body caught up to my mind as I process the puddle spreading across my large countertop. Drips starting to fall off the corner, I grab a dish towel and lay it across the fallen hero that is my milk. I grab the last standing bottle as if it’s a stranded dog shaking in the middle of the street about to be hit by a car, and quickly tighten a lid on top. No time to weep for more lost milk at this point. I wipe down the rest of the mess, set my alarm for my next pumping session and go back to work. Three more hours until my next pump and I refuse to be late this time.

The alarm goes off. It’s Kelis’ Milkshake, because why not? This is my last pump of the day before my baby is home from daycare. I can’t help but feel a tiny sense of guilt for not keeping my baby home with me instead of having him in daycare. It’s the little things that bring on the mom guilt. Like you’re not giving your baby the best option of something, or best opportunity. Seemingly in your control, but not really. How am I going to give my baby the best opportunities if I can’t pay the bills? Working mom, stay at home mom, whatever version of mom you choose to be will be the best version for your family. So, I grab my pump parts fresh out the sterilizer, lay the warm plastic on my chest, and continue to work on my laptop as I start this final pump session of the day. I don’t look down too often in hopes that if I don’t look my milk will flow better. That’s not the case. There’s just about two ounces of milk in each container.

Bringing my grand total for the day to about eight ounces of stored milk, I feel a deep level of sadness as if it were all for nothing. When my baby drinks about eighteen ounces at daycare, I can’t help but feel defeat. Hours spent pumping, cleaning parts, re-assembling, and repeating throughout the day. Spilled milk, wasted milk all gone too. My tits were working overtime. Overworked, paid nothing, and left to do it all again today. A tiny heartbreak in a long-winded journey through motherhood.