Breast Pumps

  Before I had children, I remember having a meeting with a colleague in her office. She had 3 babies under 5 years of age at the time. As it turned out, our meeting coincided with the time she needed to pump. I did not know this, so at the appointed time, I knocked on her door ---and, she invited me in... and insisted that I stay. 

I did not know exactly where to look, I was so uncomfortable. The whole time she talked non-stop about how wonderful some breast pump was and how her oldest was still drinking breast milk.... this, I did not need to know. I quickly moved that information to the TMI column and promptly instructed my brain to "unhear" it.  

For 30 minutes, she geeked lyrical over this device...it was like being at a plenary session in a research conference, she was so insightful!

Fast forward a few years---I am expecting my baby number 1. Oh, and I mention? Like every ProfessorMother, I have timed that baby perfectly---June (read: summer break) and post-tenure? Clever! I have read every book on what to expect while expecting and beyond.  I am a breast-milk-or-bust crusader. My baby will not eat from a jar. My baby will not be given a pacifier. My baby will be read to in three different languages...etc., etc., ad nauseam. Oh, and of course, no epidural.

 I am racking my brains trying to recall my former colleague’s miracle milk-inducing pump...

I google by former colleague, shoot her an email and...Voila, I have the name of the miracle milking machine: Medela Pump in Style! 

Yes!

Sounds serene, doesn't it? It even came in a nice little laptop-like carrier! Loved it! (Let me clarify---I loved its appearance---very scholarly looking. Appealed to my inner geek). 

Well, finally Bundle-of-Joy is here.

Come Day number 2 of hospital stay. The naive, trusting man (and women) in scrubs decide it is time to send me home to take care of this little person---they actually deem me adequately prepared to know what to do (on my own) 

---husband is superfluous to this narrative.

Guess what? I actually believe the folks in scrubs when they tell me that in a day or so, my milk will come in.(Looking back now, I am impressed with how innocuous they made the "coming in" of the milk sound. As if it will flow serenely like a peaceful brook flanked by a meadow---in your mind picture scenes from a visual rendition of a Victorian summer).

(Yeah...we will revisit this in another post.)

No problem, I think to myself. I have tons of breast milk freezer/storage bags all ready and waiting in my Bundle-of-Joy-designated space in my pantry, my Medela milk extractor 3000, ---I am ready!

Weeelll. 

Day number 3.

I wake up to 2 rock hard, humongous bowling ball-size globes where my breasts used to be, throbbing in excruciating pain.... and, oh, did I mention that the reason I get up is my little Bundle-of-Joy is taking extreme liberties at exercising her lungs at full screech?

I guess she is hungry, huh? 
(and judging by the high decibel range of the deafening sound coming from her all of 6 lbs 4 ounces body, I am guessing she is angry too)

But, there is absolutely no way I am allowing her hungry little mouth  anywhere near my alien boobs, rose-bow cute or not.

It is then my husband (in his infinite wisdom) suggest the unthinkable: breast pump!

Are you friggin' kidding me! 

Those are two words that should never, ever, EVER go together ---in any language!

Breast and Pump!