Do you think you could pump a little more?

(This is about breastfeeding..if it squicks you out..I will see you tomorrow.)

Over the past a couple of weeks, I have seen a couple of stories about breastfeeding..there was that breastfeeding type sit-in at a Target; a mom being given the wrong baby to breastfeed at the hospital and the lawsuit that followed.  I breastfed both of my girls--Laurel was half and half (my milk and formula) and Rachel was all breast milk for a while but I pumped and fed her out of the bottle. (Quite a little sucker that one..) I was very proud of this accomplishment and I wrote an essay after Laurel was born to both brag and lament on this experience.

Do you think you could pump a little more?

By this point, I have made it clear that I thought the whole baby process was going to be a lot easier.  Breastfeeding was no exception to the surprise.  How hard can it be to have a child latch on to your nipple and suck?  Isn’t that how Caroline Ingalls did it on Little House on the Prairie?  I mean “Ma” never needed a lactation consultant showing her how to express milk.

Let me start from the beginning.  Breastfeeding never squicked me out.  When a woman whips out her boob (I don’t call it a breast.  I eat chicken breasts. My boobs are boobs), it’s natural.  I know my mom breastfed my sister and me.  Proof of which can be seen in family photos of my mom’s ginormous tata’s which now have been reduced to 32A’s.  My aunt had her children when I was between 9 and 12.  The sight of her feeding Hannah or Lydia was common.  The cutoff from breast milk to table food was when either of them could say “too old for joobie” when you asked how old they were.  My Aunt Brendi was never sequestered to another room to feed them.  Where she was at the present time was where she fed them.

I really can’t say that my goal to breastfeed Laurel was to bond with her.  My first reason was practical.  Breastfeeding costs less than formula.  A can of powdered formula is at least $21.  I believe if Laurel was formula fed only, she would have gone through at least two cans a week therefore $168 a month.  I never realized how expensive formula was.  My sister and I jokingly call it powdered gold. 

My second reason was a selfish one.  I understood that your body would burn an extra 400 calories a day while breastfeeding.  I breast fed to lose my pregnancy weight.  (I feel guilty just typing that one out.)

Before my difficulties, I thought it was very convenient to be able to feed Laurel relatively anywhere without worrying about having formula, bottles, etc.

I didn’t set an expectation for myself in regards to how long I would breastfeed Laurel.  It would be great if I could make it six months.  I would just see how it went.

An hour or so after Laurel was born, I tried to feed her.  It shocked me that the nurse literally shoved Laurel’s face into my boob.  This was a first for both Laurel and me.  She latched on but 36 hours later (which equates to approximately 23 feedings) my nipples were telling me that she wasn’t latching on correctly.  At this point, every time I was to feed her, there was an initial five seconds of agony and then hoping that she was getting enough to eat.

I did take a breastfeeding class sponsored by my HMO before Laurel was born.  The only part of the class that I remember was holding a doll like I was going to breastfeed it.  But the doll they gave me didn’t weigh close to what Laurel weighed.  The doll also didn’t squirm, have a bobbling head or a working mouth.  While the class was a nice thought, it didn’t help me a bit. 

My nips were a mess.  Laurel was losing more weight than anticipated and her bilirubin levels went way up.  She was as yellow as a dandelion.

I thought my milk would drop a day or two after Laurel was born but it took four days.  Prior to the drop, she was getting colostrum.  While I was told that colostrum was jammed packed with all the nutrients that she needed, it was also like sucking Jello through a straw.

At four days old, we went back in the hospital so Laurel could “tan” under the blue lights and get her rosy hue back.  As she was in the nursery, my milk dropped.  I didn’t know what was happening to me.  It was like being in the sixth grade again and getting my period for the first time.  I was prepared for the occurance but when it actually happened, I thought I was bleeding to death.  Ching was helpful.  He told me that he didn’t know what this was but I was definitely HUGE.

I felt like I had grapefruits attached to my chest.  And I didn’t want to be touched.  The tenderness was nothing like I expected.   I can only describe the soreness as pressing down on a very bad bruise but the pain was radiating from the inside out.  I didn’t want anything to touch me which is a great thought since I was about to have an infant chomp down on my nipple.

I thought my milk dropping would help Laurel latch on correctly since the milk was flowing easier (then the colostrums).  She would eat like a champ and pack on some weight.  This didn’t happen, so during her first hospital stay we decided to supplement her diet with formula.  I felt like an absolute failure not be able to breast feed my child.  This was the “natural way” and I couldn’t do it.  So many women that I knew were able to pump their kids full of milk.  As I was pretty down on myself, some (other women) started to fess up.  My mom admitted to me that while she breast fed me, it only lasted for a couple of months.  Little by little more breastfed children were actually products of both formula and breastmilk.

While Laurel was having her first round of formula in the nursery, I started to pump.  I needed to relieve some of the pressure and I also thought that if Laurel couldn’t get the milk from my boob, I could pump and put it in a bottle for her.  The first time I pumped, I thought my nipples were being stretched like a pull toy.  I am a huge proponent of the electric breast pump because of the speed and efficiency but when you first use it, start on the absolute lowest setting and work up.  My first attempt yielded about ¼ of an ounce out from both side combined.  Getting a few ounces at a time took me a few attempts on the pump.

After Laurel was discharged, we had a lactation consultant come over to correct any bad techniques.  I really didn’t know what to expect.  There were so many nuances that I didn’t even consider:  proper pillow placement to better my posture, massaging techniques to get the milk flowing, holding Laurel up higher, etc.  I even had diagrams drawn for me so I would remember techniques. 

Then I got to use all sort of accessories.  My nipples were pretty beaten up and I needed the to heal but I still wanted to breastfeed Laurel.  I used nipple shields which are little cone shaped pieces of soft plastic.  My nips were now protected but stuck straight out just like I was in a 1990 Madonna video.  Also, the firm shape of my nipple was easier for Laurel to latch on to.  We also used thin tubing taped to my boob.  One end was taped very close to one of my nips. The other end was attached to a syringe that was full of my breastmilk.  When Laurel was close to latching on, we would slowly squirt the milk in her mouth so she would know where her target was.  Even while I am writing this, the process sounds so convoluted.  But every idea helped.  I was also proud of myself for not giving up.

Before my perseverance is praised, my motivation may be considered selfish.  I wanted to lose my baby weight.  I know..selfish but it kept me motivated and on task.  I had spent several months in clothes that I hated.  I just wanted to wear my comfy, make-my-legs-look-long jeans.

Little by little, the breastfeeding started to work for the both of us.  It took a lot of tries, a lot of pillow arranging, one more hospital stay for Laurel (to get her weight on track), a regular supplement of formula, and self realization that she was drinking all breast milk I had but was still a little hungry therefore needed a helping of formula.

If she was drinking formula, I would pump to keep my milk flowing.  Actually, this also gave me a break at times too.  My mom would feed her a bit, Aunt Angela was thrilled to feed her and Ching did one feeding during the night while I slept.

I would always do a feeding very early in the morning around 3:00.  I always thought I was going a little crazy during this time of night.  I was trying to stay awake so I would either talk quietly to myself and Laurel or I would play boggle using Laurel’s alphabet floor mat (I was able to make 2 five letter words!) or make up silly limericks.  The only one I can remember was about my then 4 month old, very chubby, niece Maddie:

                There once was a little girl named Maddie,

                Who was cute, sweet and fatty.

                Through all her drool

                She knew how to rule,

                Walking around saying “Who’s your Daddy?”

At the time, this was amusing.  But again, it kept me awake.

Breastfeeding was extremely convenient while traveling on a plane.  If I had the window on one side and Ching on the other (side of me), no one could see me feed Laurel.  If Laurel started fussing or I wanted her to suck to prevent her ears popping, I whipped out my boob and she was content for a long time.  There have been many a plane ride since where I wish I still could breastfeed her even though she is now at the age where she could say, “Too old for joobie.”

I continued to breastfeed when I went back to work.  Out of all of the crap that Laurel and I went through trying to get this process to work, I found pumping at work the most inconvenient aspect.  My work doesn’t have a mother’s area.  Most floors are 90% open cubes.  While I would like to think of myself as important, I didn’t have an office with a door, I have a big open cube.  I ended up pumping in one of the phone rooms.  It was an incredibly small room where people could shut the door and make a private call.  So at least twice a day, my double breast pump and I would go to another floor, lock the door, disrobe and hopefully pump four ounces.

My ounce output would dictate if I was having a good day.  Anything under a total of 5 ounces (for the day) signified a very bad day.  Anything over 8 was a very good day.  Regardless how much I ate and drank, I could not pump more than 10 ounces during an 8 hour day.  Ching read an article about children who were breastfed and their I.Q. results.  According to him, he understood that breastfed children had I.Q’s  an average of 8 points higher compared to non breastfed children. He then proceeded to ask me if I could pump a little more? Two questions popped in my head after his (incredibly stupid) request.  All of this for only 8 more freakin’ points?  Do you think I am hoarding milk in my boobs?

While I had difficulties at the beginning, I was pretty lucky during the work/breastfeeding phase.  I never leaked.  I was never panicked that I had to pump and couldn’t pump.  AND, I never had an unfortunate incident where I hear someone else’s kid cry while two big circles stained my blouse.  The only issue that I had were some clogged milk ducts.  You will know a clogged duct when it happens.  You don’t want anything touching or sucking on your boob.  Actually, you don’t even want to move.  This is pretty unfortunate since pumping and applied heat eventually gives relief. 

I didn’t make the conscious decision to stop.  My body just didn’t produce milk anymore around the time Laurel was six months old.  My body didn’t give me time to wean Laurel but she didn’t seem to notice that she was only getting formula.  Earlier I was beating myself up for having to give her formula with my milk.  Now at this point, I was relieved that I didn’t have to transition her from breastmilk to formula.

Recently I asked Laurel where milk comes from as I handed her a sippy cup.  I thought she was going to say “moo”.  She didn’t know what to say and just stared at me.  While she didn’t know the answer, I was more satisfied that she didn’t point to the refrigerator.  If it had been only that easy…

Being the Oven to the Bun

(This entry is a short introduction to an essay that I wrote when Laurel was 18 months old.  I have never let anyone read it.  Hope you like it.  But a head's up--it does contain the words boob, hemorrhoids and probably something else that I am forgetting.  This entry is a little bit longer than past posts.)


I am an active faux runner.  I joke that my running isn't the real deal because it's always on the treadmill.  I don't expose myself in outdoor elements.  (I do expose myself to indoor elements like the joker next to me that thinks that letting yesterday's gear just dry out is just as good as washing.)  I run because I like the way my body looks and I am in control.  One of the hardest issues that I had to deal with was the lack of control I had when I carried both girls.  And with that..I would like to segue into my essay..

Being the Oven to the Bun

As soon as I saw that second line, my body wasn’t mine anymore. Everything that went in my body was for my nugget’s benefit. If something went in that was bad, I felt horrible guilt. (When I reference bad, I am not talking about a shooter, just some iced tea.)

Not a lot went into my body during the first trimester. The nausea was moderate but consistent—every day from mid-June until mid-August. I really didn’t think I was going to make it and felt like a wuss everyday. It felt like Ching was making me read the map as we were driving—that makes me very queasy. Everyday I would think, “Oh my God, I am still reading the map.” Staying home didn’t help because the two times that I did that, the next day the nausea seemed worse and I wasn’t going to miss two days in a row. We were also getting our kitchen re-done. Nothing like staying home and smelling old baseboard of the kitchen floor. I avoided watching TV because of the constant loop of Applebee’s, Ruby Tuesday’s, TGI Friday, Chili’s commercials. That food looked like crap to me. Regular television shows seemed to have so many people drinking alcohol. I couldn’t watch this either. I just wanted to sit in a dark cool room and wait until trimester #2.

My control was gone. I was petrified that I was going to be sick in any form of public transportation. I was taking a commuter rail and shuttle to work during a very humid summer in Boston. Airplane barf bags kept in my shoulder bag gave me a little confidence. Luckily none were used.

No weight was gained during this time. I lost three pounds.

Typical things that I thought would happen that didn’t happen: my boobs were no bigger (so typical) my pee frequency didn’t feel higher, nothing was tender, no sense was heightened and no random jagged crying. Just nausea—I don’t remember being all that tired but Ching said that I was.

And then one day it was a new dawn. Cliche as it may sound, one day during the tail end of the first, I felt better.

My second trimester was just a waiting period of seeing results. Again, no control. In the past if I wanted to see weight gain-pizza and donuts; weight loss was more exercise and less pizza and donuts. I needed some proof. The fact that I didn’t have my period but a stick with two lines was not doing the trick. Several weeks went by where I looked bloated. No one ever told me that you can button your pants in the morning but by afternoon, not so much. I spent many an afternoon sitting at my desk looking sloppy with unbuttoned pants and my blouse untucked. I started to look fat, not pregnant, just kind of a beer gut. This is when I started wearing the maternity clothes—so my shape was validated. Honestly, I wanted to wear a sign saying “Am pregnant, Not fat”. It was fun in meetings when someone would build up the courage and try to ask me if I was pregnant. The question never came out as smooth as I thought the deliverer intended. If I knew the person well, I would give them a deadpan “No, I am not..do you think I LOOK FAT?” So fun—you have to give me something. I hadn’t had a good stiff drink in months.

I tried to exercise but that lasted for two days. I tried the yoga and since I would giggle at words like chakra and, I decided it wasn’t for me. I walked to the train everyday—that seemed like enough exercise to me. I read that Heidi Klum never exercised during her pregnancy because the body is all ready doing enough work growing a person. That theory sounded great to me.

There were only certain times where my senses didn’t seem to work. One day, lilies smelled like salami. And salami was the only thing I wanted to eat. Once I started to cry as I was getting ready for work. I was actually thinking about how beautiful my newborn niece was but in retrospect that was hormones. I never cry at crap like that..now when I look at her picture I think—“she just looks like every other baby.”

My most humble moment occurred during a trek of Christmas shopping. In the past, I would be able to weave in and out of crowds—nimble like a cat. I couldn’t weave in between crowds anymore. I learned this when I took out a whole display in Godiva.

It was getting so hard to ascertain my mass. I would try to pee in a cup during a regular OB exam and miss cup and end up peeing on my own hand. Are you kidding me?

While I was nausea free, I did have to stay home for a day due to hemorrhoids. Roy showed up around the holidays. (Must have been a yuletide gift from the pregnancy fairy.) I could not walk or sit down comfortably. I was pretty lucky. Roy only stuck around for about a week. It was a pretty long week but it did teach me to maintain a rich fiber diet.

In actuality, I didn’t gain a huge amount of weight—41 pounds over all with the last 12 happening in the last two weeks. This was the water weight everyone talks about and it came at such an inopportune time. Right before a baby shower that my mom and her friends were attending, my feet just ballooned with grossness. My ankles were gone. Panic ensued and my mom was convinced that I had some sort of pre-eclampsia which I didn’t. Again, just water weight.

I have heard debates about epidurals. While it did help with the pain, it also made me more comfortable than I had been in months. My back didn’t ache, my side didn’t hurt—I felt as light as air. Actually I think this feeling could have mimicked drunkenness—it was nice.

After Laurel was born, I knew I would not leave the hospital looking like I did nine months previously. Regardless of  knowing that, I didn’t feel any better about the way I looked. I thought I looked lumpy. And I knew that in the few days (after she was born), my milk would drop. My body still wasn’t my own just the role had changed—from an oven to a constant milk spout.

I have always complained about my lack of boobage but when I started breastfeeding, I missed my small boobs. They were enormous—I felt like a circus freak. What is Pamela Anderson thinking? None of my pre-pregnancy tops fit. Because I am petite with small boobs, I equated small boobs to being petite. Regardless how much weight that I lost, as long as I had these bozombas, I was not petite. At least I know now I would never want breast implants.

The lack of control that I had in the first trimester when fearful about spontaneously vomiting was back again but this time the fear was incontinence. I had no muscle control down there. I would lie in the hospital bed thinking, “I have to pee”, struggle out of bed and not make it eight feet to the toilet. Just nine months before I had a bladder of steel and now the thought of a kegel exercise was a pipe dream. While this did get better, there were a couple of weeks where I was afraid to leave the house.

Within 3 weeks time, I lost 36 of the 41 pounds. I don’t know if this is typical or not—it’s just what happened to me. I have to give the credit to sheer exhaustion and running on fumes of stamina. Even though I had only 5 pounds to go, I couldn’t wear my pre-pregnancy clothes. My waist seemed to have a tire of extra flesh since my skin hadn’t bounced back. My boobs were out of control and my hips were still in pregnancy mode. I just felt wide, flubby and voluptuous.

Regardless of weight loss, my body was still a machine for my daughter. Food, water went in for the sole purpose of making milk. I wouldn’t even think of my own nourishment. I breastfed Laurel until she was 6 months old.

Laurel is now 18 months old. I started working out a month ago just to make myself stronger and to create a little more stamina. While I weigh less than I did pre-pregnancy, a little bit of flub still hangs over my waistband of my pants, my belly button is a very weird wrinkly “O” like shape. And the best part: my boobs are smaller, a little saggy and not even, but smaller. Battle scars—not sure. But I am the first to jokingly brag about them to any woman.