My Sugar House Life: Hey breast pump, you suck

As I write this post I have a noisy, uncomfortable sucking machine attached to my body. I'm typing with arms outstretched to accommodate two bottles of antibody-filled, nutrient-balanced, asthma/obesity/allergy-inhibiting liquid gold for my daughter to consume tomorrow. That's right, readers. I'm a pumper.

Besides sucking in general, let me emphasize what a tremendous time suck pumping is. Every morning I pack my pump, including 4 empty bottles in a cooler and all the pump pieces that I loving wash and sterilize the night before. I lug my Medela Pump n' Style across the parking lot at work and share knowing glances with other women carrying the same discreet, portable device. When it's time for my first pumping session of the day I go through this rigmarole:

Affix a "Do Not Disturb" sign to my office door.
Close door
Take off my jacket and get undressed to the degree necessary to pump
Put on my Simple Wishes hands-free pumping bra
Plug in pump
Take bottles out of cooler and assemble sucking devices
Attach sucking devices to pump
Attach the whole contraption to me
Pump for 15 minutes, occasionally glancing at the door in a state of panic (what if I forgot to close it?!)
Detach the bottles
Put milk in cooler
Take off pumping bra and get dressed
Wash pump parts in the hallway next to college aged boys who have no clue what they're looking at
Check shirt nervously to make sure I remembered to button it up
Take sign off my door and get back to work
Rinse and repeat three hours later

The whole process takes about 20 minutes now that I've developed the speed and efficiency of a NASCAR pit crew. I usually do this around 9:30 am, 12:30 pm, and 3:30 pm everyday, carefully scheduling "P Sessions" in Outlook so I don't accidentally forget.

The true low point of pumping happened yesterday when the fire alarm went off at work mid-pumping session. As I hear people yelling in the hallway "This is not a drill!" I hastily detach myself from my pump, rip off my hands-free bra, button my shirt, and nearly spill freshly-pumped milk all over my desk. I dart out of my office to see the last of my colleagues filing out the emergency exit. Thank goodness there wasn't actually a fire or I would have been a goner.

With all the hassle and discomfort, why pump? Because as much as I hate pumping, that's how much I love nursing. Strike that. I love nursing way more than I hate pumping. I love the way that Harper looks at me while she eats. The way she protectively holds me while nursing as if to say, "that's mine, mama." Her occasional grin behind my boob. I wish I could bottle that feeling up (pun intended) and keep it with me forever. But I can't, so I am going to hold on to it as long as I can, or at least until Harper's first birthday.