The End of an Era: A Goodbye to Breastfeeding
“It’s a BREAST PUMP!” I blurted out, with a smile on my face, to the security guard who was tasked with inspecting my “medical bag” as I entered the concert. These words came out of my mouth in such a way that it sounded like I had truly attempted to stop myself, but the word vomit just insisted on raging forward. I found myself slightly embarrassed that this man had to inspect my pumping gear. It seemed easier to me to just address the elephant in the room before he figured out for himself what was inside my bag. My friends laughed. The security guard made no audible response while continuing to squeeze the outside pockets of my black, shoulder-strap Medela bag that many new moms have either owned or are able to identify floating through crowds in the outside world. When he had completed the inspection, he looked down at me with undercover amusement. “You’re good to go,” he said. “Have fun,” I heard from behind me as my girlfriends and I began heading up the stairs with his approval, and my bag.
That pumping bag went with me everywhere. I mean….everywhere. In this case, it would have the joy of listening to Taylor Swift sing nearly every song on her latest album from floor seats in CenturyLink field. Lucky little pump.
And lucky little mama. It was a last-minute decision, going to this concert. And when I say “last-minute,” I legit mean my best friends and I bought our tickets less than 24 hours in advance. We are all now in our thirties and we continue to prove to ourselves how wild and crazy we can really be. As I nearly scream the chorus of “This is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things,” holding a favorite craft beer in one hand, while fist-pumping to the music with my other, I glance down to make sure I’m still in front of my seat and haven’t traveled several seats down as has been the case already several times throughout the night. I spot the corner of my pumping bag peeking out at me. Just giving me a little hello. It reminds me that I’m still a mom of three. I have responsibilities that have followed me here. In this moment, and in almost all moments, actually, the pump feels like a tremendous burden. It was my little drill sergeant: giving me undesirable duties and keeping me in line by forbidding me to stray too far from home.
This was not the only major event at which my pump had accompanied me. It’d been to several Seahawks games, on dozens of airplanes, at least 8 states. I had pumped in hotels, bathtubs, the backs of many cars, lobbies, floors of houses, floors of airports, beaches, the top of sky-risers, my desk at work, my car, a million times over, my car. It had built puzzles with me, played board games, prepared and consumed lots and lots of meals, done endless loads of laundry, watched dozens of movies, unloaded the dishwasher, had hundreds of phone conversations, held babies, kisses noses, read books, curled my hair, put on my makeup. And every. single. time. I pumped, I thought about when the last time would be. I longed for the day when I could turn that switch off for the last time, and leave behind pumping for good. I was tired of carrying it through life. To events such as this concert. Of the constant, pervasive demands of pumping. Of the invasion into my social life. Of every part of my life.
I hated pumping. I was over it.
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I was an exclusive pumper at the time of the concert. My breastfeeding experience, and I’m talking about actual feeding from my breast now, had ended months before, after a routine doctor’s visit.
My three-month-old baby, the littlest of my three, had thrush. The doctor recommended I stop breastfeeding for a time, to prevent the condition from being passed back and forth between us. Thus began the exclusive pumping. Approximately one month later, after observing another mom breastfeed her baby, I realized that I couldn’t recall the last time I had actually breastfed mine. Determined to enjoy “one last time,” I had made up my mind that she would breastfeed instead of taking her next bottle. We would share that moment, and she would LIKE IT, goshdarnit.
I wanted to write about it in her baby book. I wanted to to have a proper goodbye to actual breastfeeding. I wanted to savor that last moment for all it was worth.
But my baby had other plans. In other words, she had completely, utterly, forgotten what to do. She screamed as if I was trying to choke or gag her. I gave up after a full 15 minutes of attempts, which included calming her, trying multiple positions, offering both sides, even pumping some milk out since maybe I was overfull. It had been over a month since I had fed her due to the thrush. She had forgotten. Breastfeeding was over.
“Well, I hated it anyway,” I said under my breath as I put away my Boppy for the last time.
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And I did. I HATED breastfeeding. I HATED pumping.
I had been doing it for a long time.
Before we talk details, now seems like the perfect time to mention that YOU know your body and your baby best. I almost didn’t want to tell this part of my story, because honestly, I’m a little crazy. Take that into consideration, please. While I’m here telling you how I felt, let me be perfectly clear: don’t you let my words today bring you any kind of regret or stress about your situation. Everyone’s experiences are different, and I am 10000% not telling you that you need to or should have made yourself suffer this way. I believe every mom has the right to make breastfeeding choices for themselves and not feel guilty or be unduly pressured by external forces. While I believe “breast is best,” I understand and support the many situations that make it impractical or impossible for many moms. I’m fully aware this is an emotional subject, so just know that I’ve got your back, k?!
My story is…ahem…different than most.
Over the last 5 years (60 months), I have spent 56 of those months either pregnant or breastfeeding. Blessed with three beautiful girls, each of them began resisting actual breastfeeding somewhere between 3 and 7 months of age. Due to my wild determination to provide breast milk to my babes until 12 months, I exclusively PUMPED for whatever time remained until they turned a year. It was a compulsion, an admittedly potentially unhealthy goal, that I just couldn’t relinquish for fear of disappointing myself.
The commitment nearly broke me. When my littlest stopped breastfeeding due to the thrush episode, she was a mere 3 months old, with a looooong way to go until she turned a year. At the time, I was pumping 5-6 times a day. I had already done this with two other babies. There was a moment, in my exhaustion, that I made the grave mistake of calculating how many more pumps were left until I’d be done (presumably done for good as we weren’t planning to expand our family further)…I had over a thousand pump sessions remaining. Totally demoralizing. The only thoughts keeping me from not immediately throwing my pump off the balcony were the following: 1. Once I finished, I’d hopefully never have to do it again, and 2. Pumping wasn’t AS horrific with my new pump and setup that I describe in THIS post: Make Pumping Suck Less.
Despite the mountain of pumping I faced ahead, I knew I COULD do it, so I felt like I SHOULD. After all, there are other moms out there who simply CAN’T breastfeed or make pumping work for them. Many of these moms would sacrifice a lot to be able to do what I could. In fact, I even gave some of my milk to these moms who are also my friends. “What a blessing to have that opportunity,” I told myself.
But man, was it ever a sacrifice. For the last 4.5 years, I have been a breastfeeding advocate while at the same time, a breastfeeding hater. In fact, there have been numerous times that I have stated that breastfeeding is the worst part about having a (typically developing) baby, in my opinion. And I still believe that, for me. I was always so envious of my friends who enjoyed breastfeeding. Their babies never or rarely cried while they ate, they were comfortable feeding anywhere, in any position. It just seemed effortless. Why did my experience have to be such a struggle? I wanted to have a positive outlook on breastfeeding, but I couldn’t because it was just so. hard.
But then.
Last week.
Just last week…I can still hardly wrap my mind around it…but I completed this breastfeeding journey.
I did it.
My littlest baby finally turned one. I am finally done pumping. Done breastfeeding. I have even used my frozen supply and the last bit of frozen milk I had. It’s over. Three babies and three full years of breastfeeding and pumping. Done.
It’s really, really over. It’s surreal. A dream (come true).
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Earlier this week, in glorious ceremony, I valiantly raised up my pumping bra and held it over the fire, eventually dropping it in the flames. I looked down and watched it as it burned. It was old; stained from encountering milk several times a day for what ended up being years. My husband actually bought it for me on the second day of my oldest child’s life, and now, it, well, smelled a little bit…a smell that could not be removed from the material even with the harshest of scented detergents (I tried). One side was so stretched out that it no longer held my breastshield in the correct place without extra adjusting. And when more than 4 ounces of milk entered the bottle, the bottle became too heavy to stay connected to my skin, and I had to pause my pumping session in order to dump the milk out into another bottle.
Though it had been close to me for so long, my pumping bra couldn’t be reused. Watching it burn seemed to be the perfect way to experience my final goodbye to this part of my life.
And it wasn’t even bittersweet. It was totally, completely…sweet.
The longer I watched, however, another, different feeling came over me. It was sad…and confusing. At the time, I couldn’t figure it out. Tears streamed down my face and caught me completely off-guard. I mean, you just heard my story. This reaction seems strange. Very strange. Was I mourning the loss of breastfeeding? Surely not. Did I actually love it and not realize it? Absolutely not. Was I sad I would never get to do it again? Hard no.
It would be days before I would be able to figure out why I had cried in those moments. But upon reflection, I realized retrospectively that it was not out of any kind of regret or mourning. No. It was out of a great sense of accomplishment and pride. I had survived one of the most difficult experiences of my life. And now it was over. It was emotional. It was beautiful.
I love to run and I know I talk often about it, but I believe the feeling I felt then is similar, in some ways, to completing a marathon. I have done a couple of them, and have seen people cross the finish line and break down in tears. I’m sure the reasons why they do this vary, but mostly, it’s likely because they accomplished something that makes them immensely proud of themselves. They saw a major goal come to fruition. They sacrificed, through their time, their physical exertion, their planning. They put their heart and soul into achieving a goal. They have “fought the good fight” and “finished the race” (2 Timothy 4:7 NIV). It’s a sweet, sweet, emotional and physical release to cross that finish line.
And I had finally, finally crossed mine.
Goodbye, pumping bra. Goodbye, breastfeeding.
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The story that I THOUGHT I would tell you today is not exactly the story you just heard. I thought I would be telling you a story of unguarded BLISS. Overwhelming bliss. Like, happy dance, screaming from rooftops, I just got married to the love of my life, BLISS. Instead, my story, while triumphant, is more on the emotional, introspective side of the “bliss” spectrum. But there IS a deep sense of accomplishment and relief. There may not be an actual dance happening today, but there IS pride, and joy, and excitement.
I hope, no matter what your breastfeeding story, that you, too, will remember it with pride. I hope you’ll appreciate your body for what it did. Maybe you’ll write down the last time you breastfeed, if you remember. Hopefully you’ll try not to kill your husband as your hormones adjust back to their pre-kid state. Have a ceremony if you want. Burn your freaking bra.
Do what’s right for you. Celebrate the miracle of the female body and the sacrifices made for your child(ren), no matter what they are.
I would love to hear your breastfeeding story in comments. ❤️
Lastly, it’s one day after International Women’s Day. I want to celebrate all women, those who are mother’s and those who are not. Those who breastfeed and those who do not. We are all capable of achieving our dreams and goals and I am behind you and yours!
Until next time, friends. ❤️
XO!
Honestly,
~ AM ❤️❤️
PS: Special, huge, tremendous thanks to my friend and neighbor, Jolena, for 1. building a fire with me like the boss she is, and 2. supporting me, 3. celebrating with me, and 4. capturing these moments. There are like 12 more things (at least) but those will have to do for now.
More About Me: Hi! I’m Ann Marie, a blogging mama of 3 tiny gals, and a wife to a busy Orthopedic Surgeon. You can find me right here for a weekly smattering of inspiration for your motherhood journey, home, marriage (I see you other medical wives!), style, and beauty. You’ll find me most active on Instagram or Facebook for life between blog posts. And I truly can’t wait to see you there, friend. ❤️💋
To connect, shoot me an email at honestlyannmarie@gmail.com ❤️
