To say that I’m goal-oriented and numbers-focused might an understatement.
In high school, I voluntarily took an exam while my classmates enjoyed an early summer break because I’d calculated it could bring my GPA up a tenth of a point. I once kept a spreadsheet of the number of pages I’d read — of books I was reading for fun. And when I had a job running a website, I’d routinely unwind at night by stalking analytics.
So when I took a breastfeeding class during pregnancy, a few numbers lodged themselves into my brain. First, there were the stats about the benefits of breastfeeding the instructor extolled that convinced me that breastfeeding was 1) necessary and 2) a piece of cake. Then, she made it clear that our goal should be to exclusively breastfeed for a whole year (after all, even that was falling short of the two years recommended elsewhere in the world).
My number-crunching, overachieving Tracy Flick side perked up. Could it be that this would be the first way I’d be graded as a mom? In that moment, I decided my kid would get the magic elixir that is breast milk for at least a year. I had 365 days to unlock my first A in parenting.
At the time I believed technology had blessed me with an ally in the form of the double-electric pump I’d gotten for free. With this miraculous device, I could have it all, I blindly concluded. I pictured myself tapping away on my laptop as that liquid cure-all flowed from my body. This contraption promised freedom: the freedom to work and parent. I could get a gold star for supplying my kid with breast milk for a year at the same time I slayed my professional goals. My breast pump would be my new best friend.
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(I’ll stop for a second to give my fellow pumping moms a chance to regain their composure after justifiably laughing in the face of my naive, pre-mom self.)
In reality, pumping was not the line to freedom I’d hoped to be. It was more like a ball and chain. Having it all looked like having all the stress of providing for my child at the same time I had the stress of trying to carry myself like a boss — even as I shivered, naked from the waist up, in the company supply closet three times a day. There, in the compact space where we stashed mops, plastic utensils, and CostCo snacks, I watched drops of milk drip into the bottles hanging from my chest at a glacial pace. I felt stripped of dignity in a place where I wanted to feel — and be seen as — most in control. My irritation grew with each session.
My kid burned through my freezer stash within the first month I returned to work, and soon, my supply began to drop, with each pumping session yielding less than a bottle’s worth. As my output dwindled, my stress mounted. I tried to squeeze in a fourth session at work, and then one before bed. At one point I added a middle-of-the-night pumping session — on top of my son’s multiple wakeups. When feeding my kid in the wee hours of the morning, I at least got the gratification of cradling a snuggly, appreciative infant. But during these late-night pump sessions my mechanical companion offered no such solace. Instead, it only exacerbated my already frayed, zombie-like state of mind.
With some hindsight and a streak of actually restful nights under my belt, I realized just how untenable this was. I saw how silly it was to cling to the goal of exclusively breastfeeding for a year, when my son would be the same delightful human on a formula-based diet.
Eventually, I gave up off-hours pumping, cut my work sessions down to two, and began supplementing with formula. I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my overworked, underperforming chest. But even though scaling back made pumping more manageable, it didn’t make each session any more tolerable.
Finally, around the 9-month mark, I decided to quit pumping altogether. The return on investment (a few ounces of milk for a crap-ton of misery) just wasn’t worth it. I told my husband I was done, and then I shoved my pump parts in the back of a cupboard where I wouldn’t have to look at them.
I’d like to say I made this decision with 100 percent confidence. That I tweeted it from the rooftops, tossed my pump, into the ocean, shouted, “Good riddance!,” and never looked back (my ultimate fantasy during pumping). I logically know that I made the best choice for myself and my kid. After all, being a happier, less-stressed person makes me a better mom. However, I do find myself looking back, not necessarily with regret, but with some complicated feelings.
When talking to other moms, I often find myself skirting the issue. I nod along as others talk about it, as though I’m still with them aboard the pumping train. Or I’ll make excuses, (“Well, I was barely producing anything”), when I need to just say, “I was able to pump, but it was making me miserable, so I quit.” Why is that so hard? Am I that afraid of their judgement?
When I do come clean about quitting, I tend to be self-deprecating about it. Even in the course of writing this essay, I’ve typed out and deleted phrases like, I threw in the towel, I failed, I admitted defeat and I feel short — all of which are unfair not only to me, but also to other moms who are doing their best to feed their kids however they can.
I know that many of the emotions cluttering my brain are wrapped up in my own weird perfectionism, but I also wish breastfeeding and pumping had been framed differently from the outset. On one hand, I totally get why my breastfeeding class instructor set the bar at a year. I know she sincerely bought into its benefits and probably figured that if she told us to aim for a minimum of six months or six weeks, we might stick with it for less time. Or if she told us exactly how hard it could be that we might be too intimidated to give it a fair shot. Or perhaps her experience was so blissful that it didn’t occur to her to frame it in any other way (she did mention that she breastfed one of her kids for three years — you go, girl...seriously).
Still, I wish hitting the one-year mark had been treated like extra-credit rather than what it took to simply pass the class. I wish the instructor had been more transparent about just how difficult it could be and reinforced that even breastfeeding or pumping for a little bit of time — however short that might be — is an accomplishment. And that she had taught us that yes, some sacrifice is an inevitable part of motherhood, but not everything should come at a cost to our well-being. And of course, if you decide not to breastfeed at all, that’s okay too. (I don’t remember anyone ever presenting this as an option to me; I wonder now if it would have taken some of the pressure off to hear those words.)
I’m trying to be better myself when I talk to new and expecting moms. I try to bite back words that unintentionally diminish my efforts or the valid choice to formula feed. Even if the reason behind that choice is simply that pumping sucks, and I’d rather subject myself to a lifetime of listening to nothing but “Baby Shark” than suction a device to my boobs.
And I’m working on letting go of that straight-A mentality and embracing all the intangible measures of a mom, like does my kid feel safe and loved? Is he a kind, thoughtful person? Am I there when he needs me? And most importantly, have I cultivated a persona for myself that will sufficiently embarrass him once he reaches middle school? See? There are limitations to what the numbers can tell us.
Yes 
No 
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