My Life As A Cow

When I was pregnant with my first child, I was going to be a role model for moms everywhere. I was going to be the mom that the nurses were in awe of. The mom all women aspire to be. I would show people what giving birth and raising children was all about. My conviction lasted for oh, maybe 3 seconds after my first real contraction ended. And then it got worse.
Breastfeeding: The Reality. Nothing like the beautiful scene showed in hundreds of movies. Breastfeeding sucks. I had no idea what I was doing, I assumed that my child would naturally latch on and our bond would be complete. I bared my breast, looked down at my sweet little baby and waited. I kept waiting. I wiggled her a little closer and waited some more. She looked up at me expectantly and that’s when it hit me. I was completely unprepared for motherhood. My first parenting experience ended with her starving and us crying. This was not how things went in all the baby books I read. I could see them coming to take away my super mom coffee cup at any moment
Somehow my daughter and I managed to conquer breastfeeding, after many aborted attempts and pleas for help. Thinking I had perfected the art of lactation, I headed home once again convinced I was ready to be the mayor of Momville. Silly silly me.
I woke up and knew immediately that I was dying. The area where my breasts used to be had been taken over by gargantuan parodies of breasts. Amazingly, they were strikingly similar in shape and feel to my husbands’ bowling ball. As any calm, cool and collected woman would do, I called 911. My breasts after all, are of life and death importance. After stating my emergency, I think I actually heard the operator giggle. Not very reassuring when being faced with your immediate demise. After calming me down somewhat, the operator informed me that breastial alien invaders were not overtaking me; it was something far worse. My milk had come in. What did that mean? It wasn’t like I had placed an order for these, if that was the case; I’d already be labeling these bad boys for a quick return and refund. My husband was of no help. With as much drama as I possessed I flashed him my offending orbs, ready for his shock and concern over my health. What I got was a man dancing around in his underwear acting like Santa just brought him the world’s best gift. His request to play with his new toys earned him years worth of begging my forgiveness.
When I had envisioned breastfeeding, I pictured one nice steady stream coming out. Imagine my surprise the first time my child moved away from me mid-feed. I had some type of sprinkler system that farmers would pay millions for. I don’t know who was more stunned, my husband, who was a good 5 feet away, or myself. It’s all fun and games till someone loses an eye. After 2 weeks of breastfeeding, I had a new understanding of why women in tribes don’t wear tops. More than once I have nearly strangled myself attempting to wrangle the girls out of a "convenient" nursing bra.
As is the usual pattern when things start going well, we find ways to screw them up. Example A: The Breast Pump. At first it sounds kind of nice right? I sit, it pumps. Spouse and I are off for a wild night of dinner and a movie. Great, let’s get started. As soon as I took this…contraption…out of the box, I knew things were going to get ugly. First of all, I have a strong belief that anything requiring an outlet has way too much power to be attached to my breasts. This was the reasoning that led me to the manual pump. Obviously my ability to make sound judgments went the way of my perky breasts. I can barely work my juicer; imagine how effective manual pumping was for me. Electrocution fears aside, I went with the electric pump. For the first time in my life, I felt true sympathy toward cows. I’m considering switching to soymilk, just to save one cow from being hooked up the electric pump. I may possibly have mooed once or twice during my ordeal.
Having managed to pump without a trip to the ER I felt it was time to venture out. I expressed…which is a horrid term, there is nothing quick about this process…enough breast milk for a village of hungry infants, lined my temporarily deflated storage units with sanitary napkins, sans wings, and headed out the door.
Halfway through my moo goo gai pan I realized I should have brought the port-a-pump. At the rate I was expanding, I was liable to explode. Suddenly, my milk bombs sounded the alarms. Apparently they can hear my baby cry 3 minutes before I can. As a matter of fact, they can hear any baby within a 50-mile radius. My first night away from baby lasted approximately 2 hours. At home I rushed through the doors, expecting her to be screaming, just as miserable as I was. I was in no way prepared for what I saw.
There, like a little traitor, was my darling baby, gazing lovingly at her new friend the bottle. How could she? After all my pain and struggles, after I gave in to the pump? I felt so abandoned, so useless…so FREE!
Wait….could it be true? Oh my, could I actually reclaim my breasts? Could I wear a normal bra again? Could I tie my shoes without leaving wet spots on my knees?
Immediately I bought formula to last until she turned 18. I bought a sports bra tight enough to shoot the milk straight out of my nose. I burned the pump, donated the bras to house the homeless and tried to remember what my nipples looked like before they turned into #2 pencil erasers.
I know that breast is best. I am aware that I did the right thing for my firstborn daughter. I also know that millions of women have gone before me.
When I found out I was pregnant with our second daughter, I hunted down the old tight sports bra and strapped it on. My baby just turned 5, and I think it’s safe to take it off again.