Feeding

“You are the greatest mom I ever know to pump breast milk faithfully even in very difficult environment. You have given E the best she needs.” –my mom

There is no clearer illustration of what it means to be separated from her at work than this whole feeding thing. When I was home with her the first three months, things were how they should be: I made milk according to how much she wanted. She would latch on and eat to her heart’s content. I never had to wonder how much; I could take her anywhere and know I could feed her enough wherever we were.

Then I went back to work, and instead of feeding her at natural intervals, there are the pumps, pump parts, bottles, bottle parts, freezer bags and storage bags. I rarely had time or place to pump during that first hard rotation, and despite all I tried to make up for after it finished, I couldn’t keep my milk supply from dwindling.

And then there is packing her milk for each day. I don’t really know how much she needs, because I’m not there when she’s feeding. I’m only pumping about a sixth of what she could probably be eating each feed, which affects how much I can afford to pack. And in the end, how much and how often she eats varies depending on what the day is like for everyone at daycare.

There’s no sadder feeling than feeding her on weekends and realizing she comes away still hungry. Not being able to go out without having some solid food around. I just can’t will myself to make more milk than I do.

I realize in the big picture things will be fine. We are starting to supplement with formula, which is fine. But I think there is a part of me still grieving something. Sooner or later, this would have come—but having to go through it earlier than I would have chosen is hard to accept. It seems silly to say, but some version of the stages are there: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

It’s a lonely experience. I know hardly any mothers in the same work situation, and even then it’s difficult to express how it feels. But I’m trying to feel that it’s okay. There is nothing about doing this that is perfect, or sometimes even in my control. And that’s okay.