I’ve developed a new fixation, and it may or may not be sick. It seems I’m a hoarder, but with a very specific hoard: breast milk. I know it sounds crazy, and I guess it is. It is constantly in my mind that my maternity leave is counting down, and that soon I will be leaving Stella during the day. As such, my tee-tahs will as well.
My ”regulars” will know that breastfeeding has not always been easy. First there’s the pain and discomfort (including missing chunks of nipple). Then there’s the constant anxiety of not knowing how much you’re producing and wondering if your child is getting enough sustenance. THEN there’s the quandary of when to start pumping and supplementing with bottles, as you don’t want to deprive your child of a full boob (they don’t come with meters after all) or subject them to nipple confusion. For something so “natural,” it can be a real pain in the ass.
After surviving all of the above, I’ve finally reached the point where we seem to have a surplus. There are always at least 4 bottles in the fridge, each good for one feeding. I get very anxious if we drop below 4 bottles. Sure, for the time being Stella is never far from the source of the milk in said bottles, but what if I’m in a car accident (again) (I hope I have clean underwear on)? On a serious note, it’s now possible for Will and me to get out for 3-4 hours on our own (with the assistance of his mother’s generous babysitting service), so the bottles are good. But what if we run out? That’s where my sicko hoarding comes in.
And now I’ve attained the goal of beginning to freeze some. Each day, I want to try to maintain not only Stella’s intake and the bottle quota, but freeze one “slug” of milk for later (A slug is not a slimy invertebrate, nor is it something a forensic scientist specializing in ballistics would be interested in. It is roughly 4 ounces of milk frozen in a Playtex Drop In bag.). Now I have a whole new hoarding category to fulfill. My neuroses know no limits.
It’s a good thing I seem to be a “good producer.” Earlier this evening (after a bit of an outing during which I was not drained at all) as I prepared for a shower, both boobs started dripping milk. I felt like some sort of bizarre ancient Roman fountain. I hollered for Will as I ran streaking and leaking down the hall, and promptly stuck the baby on one side and the pump’s bottle on the other. This stuff is precious and must not be wasted. I won’t even describe the stream of profanity that issued forth from my lips during a transfer from the pump bottle to a regular bottle when I spilled about an ounce of breast milk. Oh, the humanity.