Pump and Dump

I HATE pumping. You know what… No, hate is not a strong enough word. I LOATH pumping. The mechanics of it all, the equipment, the fact that you shouldn’t drink, the lack of the ability to use your hands, the mess, the sound “whoooff slursh, whoooff slursh.” Yuck!

My two year old however loves it. She likes to hold the pump while it’s attached to my breast then alerts me quite loudly “Mommy the milk is coming out, I can see it, watch!” God the thrill she gets from it is just wrong! I used to try to pump discreetly but my daughter curiosity about the workings of the human body is insatiable. She is only two and I’m learning to pick my battles.

I’m not as bothered by how much my daughter has learned about pumping at such a young age. I find it hilarious when she sneaks over to “Mommy’s pumper” lifts up her shirt and puts the breast shield on her bare chest to “get milk out of her nu-nu’s.” I find it cute that she knows that the milk she drinks is different from her baby sister’s milk. I was fine with all of this until… She started to compare me to a COW!
After watching Baby Einstein’s Baby McDonald my two year old turned to me while I was pumping and said “You give baby Parker milk just like a cow gives me milk,” point’s to my boobs and says very enthusiastically, “It’s like a cow does Mommy!” A big smile on her face with her eyes all sparkly waiting for my typical “You’re such a smart girl” proud mommy response. Try horrified mother instead.

Beautiful, bouncing breasts. Where have you gone?

Where are those perky things I used to flash at parties in college to get free drinks? What happen to those good times we used to have when I would squeeze you into tight shirts and men would stare? Or all those wistful looks from the other girls when we would lay poolside? What happened to you? What happened to us?

I blame you breast pump. You’ve sucked my sensuality out right along with my milk. You’ve ruined my once soft and supple nipples and turned them into tough leathery nubs. I come to you with breasts full and curvy and you return them droopy and empty.
Why?
You’ve taken away my ability to drink a perfect pomegranate martini at the end of the night yet your breast shield, which I now hold so close to my chest, looks ever so much like a frosted, sugar-coated martini glass.