Ode to a breast pump

Hey kids,

This breast pump (well, not *this* particular one, but one just like it) has been sitting on top of the fridge for a while now. I handed it to you, Wavy, this morning at breakfast when you were in a snit waiting for your oatmeal to cool down. Some toy, eh?

You took a shine to it, tearing it apart and putting it back together all day today, and finally late tonight, I found it strewn in pieces and parts all over the living room floor. As I was putting it back together, I thought to myself... why am I doing this? Am I going to keep it? I'm certainly not giving something previously owned and used like this to Goodwill or Freecycle, or even to a lactating friend. So I dumped it in the trash.

I didn't expect to feel sad about it, but I did.

We had been through some good times and bad times over the past few years, this ol' breast pump and me. I've never been a particularly productive pumper, but this is the gadget that always seemed to work best for me.

When I was pumping for Jake, I rented a hospital-grade pump for $40-some dollars a month for about 6 months, and still never managed to eke out as much as the manual Avent.



I rented that same pump after Wavy was born, and took it back after a week, finding that I was still pumping more with the little manual pump, and not wishing to return to work with the behemoth rental that I lugged around for Jake.

I bought this little guy from amazon.com a couple weeks or so after Jake was born, it was $80 or so for the pump, four bottles of various sizes, a fashionably cute black carry case, and all the little parts that go with it.

My funniest memory of pumping at work is the little sign that one of the ladies at work made for me, as a joke, that said, "No, I'm not going home!" that I was supposed to affix to myself the twice a day that I left for the ladies room to go pump. Because I usually brought my lunch bag, my purse and the carry-case, it looked like I was leaving for the day. I was invariably asked by everyone I passed on the way out, "Goin' home early, huh?" or "Have a good day! See ya tomorrow?" Even after three months, I was still explaining myself every time I walked out the door.

I have a string of unpleasant memories attached to the damn thing, too. As mentioned previously (and blogged about endlessly at the time) I never pumped the endless ounces that some other moms seem to, and I spent a lot of time and money and tears on Jake's nursing career, whereas Wavy was the dream nurser. It's like my boobs finally stepped up to the plate and did what they were supposed to do when she came along.

Anyway, now that there's actually a precedent -- an unceremonious tossing of breastpumping paraphernalia -- it shouldn't be so hard next time as I come across this stuff in various cupboards and drawers and such.

So, farewell, Avent Isis! Do not go gently into that good night! You've served us all well and Jake and Wavy and I say thanks for the ... [insert obvious, groan-inducing boob joke here]!

PS: As I was unsuccessfully searching old blog posts for a post about the hard time I had nursing you, Jake, I did manage to find this golden oldie. My posts back then were a bit more poetic (?) than they are now.