Blood, Sweat and Breast milk

If breast milk were currency, I'd be cheap.

Seriously. I treat the stuff like gold. Not only is it my daughter's sole food source, but the efforts I go through (although admittedly, voluntarily) are ridiculous.

I actually really like nursing. At first it is bizarre and a very real reminder that we are mammals. But it is always ready, it's convenient and it's a bonding time between Marin and me. It's something we usually do alone, and only I can provide her. It's the pumping I still have reservations about. Pumping is the first thing I do in the morning and the last thing I do before I go to bed at night. Putting all the trials of Marin's first few weeks aside-- trying to get her to latch, trying to get her to eat, sitting for hours gently encouraging her to try it again-- here is a little of what my commitment to nursing entails:

(As an aside, this post may not be for everyone. Consider yourself warned.) :)

My morning starts off by waking up before the alarm (usually around 5:30am) to pump. Since Marin isn't waking up to eat in the middle of the night anymore, my cup runneth over, so to speak. Jason tells this funny story about how he wakes up to the wuuh-shoo sound of the pump, looks over and there I am. Bright and breezy. Good morning, honey!

After the sun rises, Jason, (gem that he is), washes and packs up my pump for the day. It is essential that we remember all of the parts, because without all of them, the pump does not work and I would be in a world of hurt. So far so good here.

When Marin wakes up I nurse her. Usually in my robe with a towel on top of my head. Poor girl.

I get dressed, breast pads in tact to avoid (gasp!) an unsightly leak, and head out the door.

Then I lug the pump to work. In the car, to daycare, to the train. It is built into a "stylish" over the shoulder bag. "Stylish" is up to your own interpretation. I give it a 2 on a scale of 1 to 10. 1 being a fanny pack; 10 being a Gucci hobo.

When I get to work the real fun begins. To maintain my supply, I have to pump when I am away from Marin. The milk that I pump goes with her to daycare the next day. In order to pump, I drag my stylish bag past Rich at the front desk and through the lobby. While the bag doesn't have "I have seen her topless" written on the side, if you (or your wife, or your sister, or your best friend) has breast fed, you know what it is. Then I go upstairs to campus services to get my friendly security person to unlock my special pump room. Letisha is very nice. And very sick of me.

I pump in a room with minimal windows (blinds closed as tightly as a steal trap), a lock on the door, and a sign outside that says, "Please do not disturb". Once inside- after the parts are assembled- I stare at the bare walls, a memo board from a marketing meeting that has long since passed, and a small picture of Marin. About 15 minutes later, I pack everything away in my cooler, disassemble all of my parts, head back downstairs through the lobby again and sneak into the president's kitchen (it's the only sink in the building with temperature controlled water) to clean my pump parts. I pray the whole way there that the kitchen will be empty so I don't have to explain to anyone what the heck the cone shaped contraptions in my hands are.

I repeat the above two more times throughout the day. Sometimes I call my mom or Jason as I sit there. They don't always appreciate the visual when I tell them why I am calling them from my cell phone. Sorry guys, I get bored.

Then I lug the pump home. On the train, to daycare, in the car. When I get home, the pump is washed, milk is stored. And I nurse Marin.

I nurse her usually two more times before she goes to bed.

Right before I go to bed (usually around 10pm) I pump again. Wash the parts, store the milk, and get it all ready for when I get out of bed first thing in the morning.

It is for these reasons that I can't put a price on the fruits of my labor. Every drop is precious to me. I covet each bottle that goes with Marin to daycare. You can imagine my dismay when the daycare told me they spilled an entire bottle last week and had to tap into their reserves. I felt like saying, "Let's see, by my calculations, including supplies and labor, that spill should set you back a thousand dollars."

It's a love/hate relationship that I have with my pump. It is a necessary evil at this point. But that puppy and I go everywhere together. I literally don't leave home without it. It's even accompanying me to my future sister-in-law's bachelorette party next weekend. It's sure to be a real party pleaser, I'm sure! :)

So why go through all this trouble you ask? (Or maybe you didn't, but I'm going to tell you anyway.) Well, for one, it is the best for Marin, and I'd do anything for her. Breastfed babies have a lower rate of hospitalizations, respiratory problems and ear infections. It protects them from (hopefully) developing allergies, type 1 diabetes, and high blood pressure later in life. Tests have shown that being breast fed can boost a child's intelligence and reduce the risk of SIDS. And, it helps me with weight loss (which everyone tries to pretend doesn't matter - but come on!) and may reduce my risks of getting some types of cancers.

I'd like to try to exclusively breastfeed until Marin is 6 months old, and it is time to start introducing baby food. She hasn't had anything but breast milk to date, and for some reason I am really proud of this. Either because of the journey it took us to get to this point, or because of the resilience in my effort. Maybe a little of both. In the meantime, my pump and I have a standing date. 5 times a day. In some very (and not so very) interesting places.