Yesterday was my last day pumping in my office closet. My original goal was 6 months, so I feel pretty great about making it to 11. I'm done, but I'm not sure exactly how to feel about it just yet.
I'm glad I don't have a constantly worry about not getting enough milk or not having time because someone scheduled me meetings, but I'm sad because I'm turning to formula. My feelings about formula are very complex and not yet resolved.
I'm glad to not have to sit in the closet anymore fearing someone will walk in, but I'm sad that I will no longer have a break to stream 'Say Yes to the Dress' on Netflix. (Even though I only discovered it was possible a month ago, doh!)
I feel relieved, but guilty I guess. I'm still nursing night and morning, and pumping has made me really cherish that time and direct contact with Franca. Ugh. Forget renovating a house, motherhood is by far the most complex endeavor I've ever undertaken.
While I'm on a tangent here, let me say a word about breastfeeding. Well, two words: Do It. Actually, you know what? Strike that, I don't want to tell anyone else what to do, I just want to share my own thoughts:
I guess I always figured I would breastfeed because I was breastfed and my sisters did. Plus, Asheville is a very breastfeeding friendly city. Not that I was without reservation. It is weird to think about before you are in the throws of motherhood. It is weird to think of breasts that are so often sexualized to the brink of insanity being used for something so innocent and amazing. And it is HARD. At least for me it was. You figure you will "just know" how to do it and the baby will "just know". Ha.
It is truly amazing though. Every time I do it, even now, I just get this sense of Ha! I work! Look at me! Look at these little 34As that have caused me so much personal doubt and feelings of inadequacy. They totally do the job. I think I finally feel like a woman, and that
is something for a person who loves demolition and spends half her days on a dirty job site talking about toilets.
I am woman, hear me roar! Actually, hear me anything as long as I never again have to hear the whine of a breast pump. (Well, at least until kiddo #2. Maybe by that time, we will actually have the kitchen trimmed out, right?)