Give in to the "F" word

Shawn has been breastfeeding Reilly since the day our wee lass was born (I’ve been using Irish-isms ever since St. Patrick’s Day yesterday. Forgive me.) For those who don’t know, this is no small feat. To breastfeed every day is to have a second job. It requires a level of commitment that I don’t even know if I have. You see, an average women’s body only provides as much milk as there is a demand for. So, when Shawn goes to work each day, she has to tote along her breast pump to ensure that she is fooling her body into thinking there is a baby latched onto her boob. This is where the commitment comes in. There is no, “Gee, I don’t really feel like pumping today.” It just takes a few of those choices, and the milk supply will begin to dry up.

The other problem is when the baby is actually able to eat more. It was a major crisis a few months ago when Reilly went up from a 5oz bottle to a 6oz bottle per feeding. Shawn was only producing 5oz per pumping session, so there was the problem of the additional ounce. It was a major victory for me to convince Shawn that the extra ounce could be made up with formula, rather than having to increase her pumping regimen.

The pumping regimen is really where the whole breastfeeding thing wipes away a mother’s dignity. Shawn is connected to that Medela breast pump like a Siamese twin. She should name the thing for all the time she spends with it. She pumps every few hours all day long, (about 40 minutes per day), unless she is feeding Reilly directly.

I don’t escape the curse of the breast pump either. My day is sprinkled with the “whee-whoo, whee-whoo” sound that emanates from the blasted machine.

Shawn calls me at work, “Hey, Bri, how’s it going?”
Me: “Good, busy today.”
Then I ask, “What are you doing?” even though I know she’s pumping, because I can hardly hear her over the phone with the “Whee-woo! Whee-woo!” droning away in the background. (I swear, in fifteen years or so, there will be a study that shows that mothers who used Medela hospital-grade breast pumps are more prone to hearing loss.)
Shawn: “Pumping.”

The worst part is that Shawn’s place of employment does not have any special rooms for breastfeeding mothers, so she has to do this activity, three times per workday, in—get this—the Janitor’s closet.

I’ve been encouraging Shawn to slow down, or give in to the “F” word (formula), but I think that only makes her want to keep on plugging. You all know Shawn doesn’t back down from a challenge, nor does she give in on her goals. Originally, she made a goal of breastfeeding Reilly for six months. At six months, she upped her goal to one year, and come hell or high water, she’s going to make it. In fact, Shawn has this obsessive desire not only to breastfeed Reilly for a year, but to create a Breastmilk Reserve in case the milk fairy comes and steals her milk in the middle of the night. The reason for the Reserve is actually a good one. Shawn used to have only a one-day backup supply of milk, so it used to stress her out to no end when I was home with the baby. She would call me throughout the day to get tabs on Reilly’s breast milk consumption so that she could determine how much she had to pump. As her reserve has increased, her anxiety has dropped, but the strain is catching up.

The thing about breastfeeding is that it essentially sucks the life (read: calories) out of you. The hardest part of my day is watching Shawn pump right before bed, her face drawn, her body slumped in exhaustion. I wish there was some way I could help her, but as you know, anatomy is working against me on that one.

And now, a one-word photo essay:

“Dedication”