Yeah, that part was not covered in my childbirth preparation. No one told me about the part where one of my babies would be unable (or, as I’m convinced when I’m particularly tired, unwilling) to feed effectively at the breast and I would have to spend a huge portion of every day feeding the equivalent of four babies instead of just two. Because I nurse Emmett, then I nurse Miles, then I give Miles a bottle of expressed milk or formula because he’s still hungry, and then I pump for Miles. That’s four — count ’em — four feeding events per feeding. Not to mention the times when Emmett projectile vomits the entire contents of his stomach and needs to eat again 20 minutes later, which ups the count to five.
I’m ashamed to say that pumping is definitely not getting the attention it deserves, and I feel horrible about it every day. Every day. All day. Because every time I don’t pump is a time when Miles doesn’t get as much breastmilk as his brother, and a time when I have to supplement with formula, which I swore I’d never do, and a time that I feel I’m failing him as a mother.
I know these things are irrational. I know that any breastmilk at all is good for him and he will not die because he eats formula less than half the time and being able to pump at all is kind of herculean when I’m juggling two babies and trying to occasionally sleep and bathe. I know those things, and they don’t matter because my precious baby is not getting what I want him to have because I’m human and have limitations and am in a position where “good enough” is as good as it gets. I am not used to being human, and I feel like I’m letting Miles down.
Also, I hate pumping. I hate the sound of the pump. I hate the feel of the hard plastic breast shields against my skin. I hate the tugging, pulling suction that leaves rings around my areola and inflates my nipples to epic proportions for 40 minutes after each pumping session. More than anything, I hate having to choose between eating and pumping, between napping and pumping, between showering and pumping. Every time I choose the other thing, I feel like I’m putting myself ahead of my child and that is wrong. But I can’t not eat or not sleep or not bathe and still be remotely functional, so it’s the lesser evil. Right? Right. I know it is. But I have to remind myself every day and sometimes I cry about it anyway.
My hope is that by the end of the month, or maybe next, he’ll be fully on the breast and then I can just pump once a day to fill the freezer for the times I go out or I just need an extra hour or two of sleep. But every time he jumps forward, he falls back again a day or two later. Not as far back as before, but still back from the amazing progress he made. Every time, it breaks my heart.
Am I putting too much pressure on my children already? To much expectation of success and perfection? Am I setting him up to fail with my attitude? Is this the start of a lifetime of making him feel inadequate? These are the thoughts that run through my head in the middle of the night when he’s getting yet another bottle because I’m too emotional and frustrated to deal with yet another unsuccessful nursing session.
As much as I’m grateful for the pump because it allows me to feed him milk even when he won’t take it the way I want, I am so ready to go Office Space on this sucker. I cannot wait for the day when it becomes optional instead of essential.
