Paying at the Pump

Long before my daughter, Jolie, was born, I acquired a top-of-the-line breast pump. Being the perfectionist, I had always intended to nurse my daughter, joining the ranks of mothers who pump at work. Having peeped at its contents when it first arrived, I was overwhelmed and intimidated by the long plastic tubing, pumping interface with separate connections for single or double pumping, sealing discs, bottles, as well as strangely alien funnels and connectors made of hard, nonyielding clear plastic. I quickly stored it away, relegating it to “after baby” status.

Jolie was 6 weeks old and was getting the hang of breastfeeding (and I was starting to feel some semblance of sanity again) when I brought the pump out from hiding to develop some comfort with pumping before going back to work. Single pumping was awkward enough—like a comedic vacuuming accident, but double pumping was a physical feat of coordination, requiring a third hand or an impressively dexterous foot. My husband was secretly terrified of the whole process, evenjust listening to the sound of the rhythmic motor hum. He made sure to vacate the room immediately before pumping began. Pumping made a very natural process extraordinarily unnatural.

My maternity leave was over when Jolie was 11 weeks old, and it was time to bring my pumping to work. Eleven weeks does not seem “that long” in absolute terms, but returning to medicine after 11 weeks of thinking only about bowel movements, wet diapers, spit-up, and sleep was another story. I had to plunge right into …