As a teacher, I thought the end of the school year in June would mark my final day of pumping. My daughter was approaching 18 months, and with her eating less from breastfeeding and spending fewer days in daycare, I figured I could simply use my frozen milk stash for those occasions. I envisioned a hassle-free end to the bottles, the endless washing, and the cumbersome pumping gear.
Yet, here I am, still pumping. I found myself pumping on the days I took her to daycare, grasping for moments to write. I pumped during a week-long business trip and learned to navigate the tricky process of traveling with breastmilk. I even pumped while prepping for the upcoming school year, returning to my classroom mid-summer.
Stopping has proven more difficult than I anticipated. I’ve tried to extend the time between pumping sessions, but I still experience some engorgement. Crunching the numbers, I realized that if I continue pumping while she’s at daycare, I could have enough milk for her bottles until her second birthday. This realization has its own allure. Initially, my breastfeeding goal was one year, but now I find myself aiming for two years, and I promise myself that I will start the weaning process then—unless she decides otherwise.
So here I am, taking two pumping breaks during my workday, sandwiched between meetings and planning sessions. I know it sounds irrational, and a part of me thinks I should quit, but I’ve come to see pumping as an extension of the love I have for my daughter, much like breastfeeding itself.
For a long time, I never envisioned myself as a mother. When I finally decided I wanted to be one, it came with challenges, particularly given my age and the difficulties we faced in conceiving. After an unexpected C-section and a rocky start to breastfeeding, thanks to a wonderful lactation consultant-turned-friend, I managed to not only breastfeed but also pump. The thought of stopping fills me with anxiety—what if everything just evaporated?
With this being our only child, each pumping session holds significance. The thought of ending it is as daunting as the thought of weaning will be.
Let me be clear: I dislike pumping. It’s uncomfortable, not truly hands-free, and time-consuming. It’s messy, with leaks and the constant need to adjust as my breasts change throughout the day. Sometimes, the pain is so intense that even a gentle breeze can be unbearable.
While I pump for my daughter, I also pump for myself. During these sessions away from her, I feel a connection. I look at her photos, watch videos, and sift through old snapshots on my phone. Although I would much prefer being with her, pumping serves as my link to her during my workday.
Pumping has become integrated into my motherhood journey. Like motherhood itself, it’s unpredictable and often more challenging than I expected. Yet, it is also immensely rewarding, providing moments of calmness and peace amid the chaos of daily life (those quiet moments in my makeshift pumping room—aka, the closet).
While I look forward to a time free of washing pump parts, part of me is reluctant to let go of this aspect of my life. Perhaps I fear that it signals the beginning of letting go of many other things as she grows.
In conclusion, my experience with pumping has been a complex blend of challenges and connections, and it reflects the unpredictable nature of motherhood itself.
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