It's okay.
Those are not my dinner-plate-sized-nipples.
They are the fuzzy heads of two hungry babies.
Babies that grunted and mauled and sucked and fed . . .
Until now.
Friends, followers, supporters and haters: I am officially a quitter.
After my four-days-postpartum-psychotic-breakdown I made the decision to pump. Pumping would allow my husband and mother to help. Pumping would hush the talking walls. Pumping was my Lord and Savior. While lactation specialists begged and doctors huffed, I kept right on sticking those giant gravel sacks into my Heavenly Torture Device. It enabled ten minutes of sleep here and there. Books were read. A blog maintained. Wars were fought and then more wars were fought. So far no wars were won. But that is irrelevant. You can not blame the Holy Medela.
I once passed out on (not in) the toilet because of menstruation pain. I love that Christians blame a WOMAN for the eternal damnation of bleeding vaginas. Really? Really? You think Eve wanted an apple so bad that she was willing to screw womankind forever? By having them lose their insides out of their vaginas every three weeks? Accompanied by three weeks worth of poop? And raging emotions? And cramps? And weight gain? And tenacious cravings for Snickers? Come on, Christians, you could have at least put a bottle of Pinot up in the tree. Beside of some cheesecake. Graham-cracker crust, please. Then we would buy the story. We might even thank Eve for the fact that wine and cheesecake grow on trees. That would be worth a lifetime of plastic applicators. It would also dissipate the urge to pump until menopause. Let's be honest, I haven't been sending Miss You cards to my period. In fact, it is one thing that has been worth all of the trouble of the past eighteen months (second to the kids, of course). At some point I even forgot all about it. It, however, did not forget about me. It was waiting all the while. Patiently hiding in the shadows, behind Oestrogen, knowing that I would forget and then UGGGGHH! WHAT IS THAT? That, my dear friends, is a period. While I am weaning. The bitch didn't even wait for me to stop. Still sucking a solid twelve ounces per boob and WAP! there's one perfect fit and honey this one is it . . . I'm feeling so excited cause we're reunited yeh yeh . . . Except I'm not feeling so excited AT ALL.
In all honesty, it's not the period. I decided to quit before Peaches and Herb decided NOT TO QUIT. Just days after committing to pumping until Spring, I got yet another nipple infection. Always with the right nipple! Why can't you be more like your sister? SHE doesn't blister up and sing like Julie Andrews on a mountaintop every time the Almighty Lord comes around . . . Had I not been producing over twenty-four ounces of milk in my two daily pumpings, I would have quit then and there. Enough is enough, Righty. I've won the battles, but you win the war. Thus began the weaning of Our Savior. I'm down to a daily twelve, which, holy cannoli, is a massive drop from my fifty-ounces-a-day record.
While Zadie still wakes up before daylight to snuggle and suck, I have made the decision to end the madness that has sustained my children and saved the souls of a lost mankind.
A bittersweet ending to the greatest story ever told.
p.s.-- way back whensday. is a feature of Twinfatuation's crafty blog.
Those are not my dinner-plate-sized-nipples.
They are the fuzzy heads of two hungry babies.
Babies that grunted and mauled and sucked and fed . . .
Until now.
Friends, followers, supporters and haters: I am officially a quitter.
After my four-days-postpartum-psychotic-breakdown I made the decision to pump. Pumping would allow my husband and mother to help. Pumping would hush the talking walls. Pumping was my Lord and Savior. While lactation specialists begged and doctors huffed, I kept right on sticking those giant gravel sacks into my Heavenly Torture Device. It enabled ten minutes of sleep here and there. Books were read. A blog maintained. Wars were fought and then more wars were fought. So far no wars were won. But that is irrelevant. You can not blame the Holy Medela.
I once passed out on (not in) the toilet because of menstruation pain. I love that Christians blame a WOMAN for the eternal damnation of bleeding vaginas. Really? Really? You think Eve wanted an apple so bad that she was willing to screw womankind forever? By having them lose their insides out of their vaginas every three weeks? Accompanied by three weeks worth of poop? And raging emotions? And cramps? And weight gain? And tenacious cravings for Snickers? Come on, Christians, you could have at least put a bottle of Pinot up in the tree. Beside of some cheesecake. Graham-cracker crust, please. Then we would buy the story. We might even thank Eve for the fact that wine and cheesecake grow on trees. That would be worth a lifetime of plastic applicators. It would also dissipate the urge to pump until menopause. Let's be honest, I haven't been sending Miss You cards to my period. In fact, it is one thing that has been worth all of the trouble of the past eighteen months (second to the kids, of course). At some point I even forgot all about it. It, however, did not forget about me. It was waiting all the while. Patiently hiding in the shadows, behind Oestrogen, knowing that I would forget and then UGGGGHH! WHAT IS THAT? That, my dear friends, is a period. While I am weaning. The bitch didn't even wait for me to stop. Still sucking a solid twelve ounces per boob and WAP! there's one perfect fit and honey this one is it . . . I'm feeling so excited cause we're reunited yeh yeh . . . Except I'm not feeling so excited AT ALL.
In all honesty, it's not the period. I decided to quit before Peaches and Herb decided NOT TO QUIT. Just days after committing to pumping until Spring, I got yet another nipple infection. Always with the right nipple! Why can't you be more like your sister? SHE doesn't blister up and sing like Julie Andrews on a mountaintop every time the Almighty Lord comes around . . . Had I not been producing over twenty-four ounces of milk in my two daily pumpings, I would have quit then and there. Enough is enough, Righty. I've won the battles, but you win the war. Thus began the weaning of Our Savior. I'm down to a daily twelve, which, holy cannoli, is a massive drop from my fifty-ounces-a-day record.
While Zadie still wakes up before daylight to snuggle and suck, I have made the decision to end the madness that has sustained my children and saved the souls of a lost mankind.
A bittersweet ending to the greatest story ever told.
p.s.-- way back whensday. is a feature of Twinfatuation's crafty blog.
8 comments:
I was a pumper, too. All hail Medela!
Pumping sucks! I thought I was going to go back to work after my second baby was born so I pumped like crazy to save milk up, well I never went back and he won't have anything to do with a bottle. Sweet, 150 (8oz) bags sitting in the freezer. And 50ozs in ONE day!?! Wow!
P.S. Boob infections are the worse, I had mastitis TWICE and I crawled into my doctor's office and begged for an upper body epidural because I thought I would for sure die from the pain.
(I think it's great you pumped for so long, good for the babes!)
This has to be one of my favorite posts ever written. HYSTERICAL. (and when you get the copy of Twinspiration I WILL send---it's on my desk at work---I suck like a Medela---be sure if nothing else to read the tale of double pumping in the Detroit Airport restroom. Will. Never. Forget.)
You are a hero for doing it as long as you did...onward and upward.
(Although I daresay, I've not returned to "upward" perky yet. Things aren't looking good.)
Thank you for a fantastic Way Back When-esday. :)
bf'ing is great, but sanity is even better. and pumping just plain sucks! so, good for you, mama! and i'm totally with you on the whole apple thing. there is not much i'd do for an apple, but cheesecake? that's a whole nutha story.
You totally crack me up!! I admire you for hanging in there as long as you did! I pumped round the clock with both sets of twins and tried my best to breastfeed. In the end, I just didn't have enough milk. I was doing everything possible too...even to the point of literally squeezing my boobs like sponges to deplete every single milk duct within my boobs!!
And I had mastitis once and I seriously thought my boob was gonna fall off my body. The pain was tremendous.
Well, my hat's off to you! And thank you for making me laugh tonight!
helene-- that is exactly how i built up my tremendous supply. every pumping, i would massage the milk down and squeeze, push and juice until there wasn't a drop left. what can i say?-- some of us are crazy, er, committed.
Yeah, when I was trying to keep up to 40oz a day (what Quinn, the little man-vacuum consumed) I had clogs that would last two days, clear for a day (WEEE) and then re-clog (F**K). REPEAT. So when I dropped to 14oz, the clogs went away too. I blame it on nipple piercings. And, oh, the guilt. Man, the guilt for pumping, the guilt or quiting... and, dude, I was raised atheist, I don't know WHERE this stuff was coming from. But i remember hanging up the horns end of September last year (made it 6 months, woot.) and around December thinking, "Wow, I'm kinda starting to feel, well, happy again." Mama's not only deserve a little happiness, I very seriously believe the fate of the world hangs on it. CONGRATULATIONS!
Funny how pumping is the best and worst part of breast feeding at the same time. Eve ate the apple because she wanted to know what God knows. She wanted to be in charge. That, sister, sounds just like a woman to me. And while churches might blame Eve, the Bible blames Adam.
Post a Comment