Let’s talk about breastfeeding or pumping…or breastfeeding and pumping.
I have a love-hate relationship with breastfeeding. I know. I can hear the sanctomommies gasping already. I love my kids. I love the milk drunk expressions on there face after a good pull at the teet. It means built in cuddles with my spawn.
I despise feeling like I’m tethered to my milk. I’m 38 years old and have spent the majority of my adult life living it the way I want. No one could really dictate a plan to me. Breastfeeding and pumping means I’m on someone else’s schedule at all times. Even when I’m not with my spawn, I’m still on their schedule.
The sanctomommies are still clutching their pearls in horror right about now.
I’ve spent 77.5 weeks growing babies and 69 weeks nourishing my babies so far. Holy hell, it’s a lot of work. I long for my body to be my own. I dread the sound of my pump. I know I could give them formula, and be done with it.
Instead, I will plug along and continue to nurse my son. Those tiny moments where he’s milk drunk or places his tiny hand upon my chest will make me swoon, and ultimately remind me why I chose breastfeeding to feed my children.
In the end, all those weeks of letting my children dictate my schedule will just be a blip in the timeline of their life. I’ve heard the saying “The days are long, but the years are fast.” from multiple people recently. Nine words could not ring truer.
Plus, I really plan to go Office Space on my pump when we finish this journey. When milk drunk faces can’t get me through, the thought of beating my pump to oblivion certainly will.