Moo, moo moo. Moooooo. Moo moo moo? Mooooo! Moo moo moooooooooo, moo, moo moo, mooooo. Moo mooooooooo, mooo moooo moo moooo.
Wait. I am not actually a cow. I just FEEL like one. And not because I look good in black and white. Not because I have 15 pounds of baby weight to go. And not because I would make fabulous patent leather pumps.
Men, you may want to avert your eyes because welcome to the milky milky cocoa puff blog.
With my daughter the boob department shut down at an early date. I have to say I made a valiant effort, but between her prematureness and my really not so insanely caring about how much formula she got, it didn’t really happen.
I KNOW breast milk is best. I get it. I’m just not opposed to a modern technology that developed formula that my husband was given. That I was given. That a billion babies every year are given and they turn out just peaches.
And yes there was a certain air of superiority from a lot of mommies I know who were able to breastfeed. Some claimed that I had it easier. Some were sure I wouldn’t bond with my baby. Some even went as far to imply that I was going to cause my child disease and give her a big case of stupid. And sure I felt guilty…but seriously the second I decided to step away from the whole breastfeeding process was the second I felt like I had control over my body again.
And you know what? We bonded just fine. Better than fine. And her Daddy loved being an equal opportunity bonder. And I didn’t have to worry about sneaking into undisclosed locations at inopportune times to try and feed her. And poo poo poo knock on wood, she is healthy healthy healthy and smart beyond reason. And I was sane and happy. And no boob juice in the world can possibly be better for a baby than a sane and happy Mommy.
So I was all prepared this time around to step away entirely from a boob to mouth relationship with the Prince. I told the nurse straight up I had no interest in breastfeeding.
But I did tell her I would try and pump and see what would happen.
Well Lord have mercy, because those things just turned on like, well imagine if the Little Dutch Boy took his finger out of the hole.
It’s like they sensed that Little Boy Blue was teeny weeny and needed extra help to get his barely there tushy out of the hospital. So they slapped on their super boober capes and goggles with their mission to deliver nutrients to the child in a single bound.
So I pump pump pump. And I don’t mind. Because now not only is he getting the manna from my booby heaven but we can have all those great nonbreast feeding benefits. Because you know what, I don’t care how “natural” and “beautiful” it is to feed our young from our teats, I do not think that the stock boy at Stop and Shop gets to see my tatas. Regardless of what is attached to them.
But yes, the pumping makes me feel like a cow. There is a big machine up in my son’s beautiful fishy themed nursery. I suction things to me for 12 minutes at a time, several times a day. And I just sit there and stare out the window, oddly soothed by the rhythmic pump pump pumping sound, resisting the urge to chew my cud.
And then I pour Mahotma Milk into containers with expiration dates.
So I am a cow, but a hard working one. A happy one (so you know I’ll make the best cheese). And one with freakin awesome cleavage.
And would I change any of it?
Aw hell to the Moo.