As a mom of three young kids, I have resigned myself to the fact that for the next, oh, 18 years or so, my time and money are not my own. Any parent can identify with that. But only nursing mothers, or those who've been down that road in the past, can fully appreciate the idea of your body not being your own for what can feel like the same period of time.
After spending the better part of the past five years with one of my children attached to my breast, my expertise in the area has ballooned in direct correlation to my rapidly disappearing sense of modesty. You simply can't be shy when there's a hungry baby demanding that you feed her. Cling to decorum, and you'll spend a lot of time in public restrooms and eat countless cold meals.
Those of us who commit to the American Academy of Pediatrics-recommended one year understand that you make some sacrifices along the way. Of course, you also lay the groundwork for a healthy child and reap your own physical and emotional benefits, but perhaps more importantly you create "memories" that help sustain you when your dedication wanes.
For instance, I'll always remember the first time my husband walked into the room while I was pumping. Or, more scientifically, expressing breast milk. He's a dairy farmer's kid, so he quickly made a very graphic (and, I can't lie, accurate) observation about the similarities between milking a human and milking a cow. I've been to the milk parlor, and I think the only process deviation is that I don't dip my teats in iodine before I hook myself up to the machine.
I'll also always cherish the memory of the first time my almost-four year old son crashed the same kind of party. He stopped in his tracks, cocked his head to one side and asked, "What's that tooting sound?"
And then there's the time my eldest daughter paid me a visit in our upstairs bathroom, where, after settling the kids down with their bedtime snack and show, I'd slipped away to pump in private. Three minutes into the process, she bounded up the stairs and into the bathroom.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"I'm getting milk for your sister," I replied.
Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied the pump. Then she crowded in for a closer look.
"Your boobies are going in and out of there! In and out. In and out," she chanted, keeping rhythm with the motor.
"Yes," I replied. "They sure are."
"Why are you up here," she asked.
"Well, I usually like to do this in private."
She gave me a blank look and then proceeded to pepper me with a dozen or so additional questions about who knows what. Maybe the life cycle of a possum.
Finally, and most recently, I was taking care of business in the lactation room at work yesterday when midway through a fire alarm started blaring. My initial thought was, 'I wonder if it's a false alarm?' Since I hadn't quite reached my quota, I considered waiting it out but then thought better of it. I may have surrendered all modesty, but I still don't want to end up a story on the 6 o'clock news: Woman found topless and unconscious from smoke inhalation. Firefighters puzzled by mechanical apparatus found next to the body.
So, I aborted my mission, stuffed my hardware into the fashionable black tote bag that male colleagues have confused for everything from a briefcase to a lunch box (seriously - I eat a lot, but I don't eat a tote bag's worth of lunch) and hurried out the door, tucking my shirt in as I walked.
Four seconds after I exited the room, the alarm stopped blaring. Turns out it was, thankfully, a false alarm.
Just another memory-making day in the life of a mom.
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