And the first shall be last

Over the weekend a friend and co-worker jokingly mentioned that she was basing her self-worth on the number of social media followers she had. I had to laugh because I realized that even more sad was what I use to evaluate my self-worth on a daily basis: number of ounces.

Lately it's been a measily 6 oz per day. Back in the day I could easily produce 12 or 15 oz.

Of milk that is. (Most of you are getting totally grossed out right about now.)

Of all the jobs I have, being a mammalian mother may be the toughest. I'm not discounting the hard work that ALL mothers have to shoulder. What you feed your kids -- whether it be the purest drawn breastmilk, Gerber baby formula, or Doritos and Diet Coke -- has little to do with the bulk of the effort. It's a hard pill to swallow when you realize that even after the pregnancy is over, it's still not my body, my choice. Having to think about what I can and can't put into my body, having to force in pumping time at work, and having to wake up at odd times in the middle of the night for months on end can take a toll on a gal.

Maybe the hardest thing about breastfeeding is the knowledge that you've got to take care of yourself in order to nourish the baby. And as all my mom friends will agree, one of the hardest things is trying to figure out where they stop and you start -- or maybe it's where they start and you stop.

Taking the time to exercise or eat a healthy meal or - gasp! - put my feet up is nearly impossible at worst and a selfish indulgence at best when the baby needs feeding, the 3-yr-old needs corraling, the laundry needs folding, the dinner needs stirring, the dog needs relieving, the husband need loving, the bills need paying, the report needs proofing and the dishes need washing.

So, ok, I guess it's not a breastfeeding thing. And maybe it's not even a mom thing. Universally we all struggle with where to put ourselves. First certainly doesn't work, but too low on the list ain't a good thing either.

For now, I'll try to keep up the breastfeeding gig. For all it's annoyances, it does guarantee some sweet cuddle time with the little guy and it does help out in the cleavage department. Speaking of which...

Pumping Moms

This week I had one of those moments when you kind of stop and realize what you're doing is utterly ridiculous - but also so indicative of your life. I was Googling "pumping moms" -- it's almost too painful to even admit/type.

The good news is that thanks to the Internet I now know I'm not the only woman out there who has a love/hate relationship with her breast pump...and struggles with everything from finding the time and privacy to do it, and the focus and dedication to actually fill enough bottles.

Ayelet Waldman at Bad Mother and the Rookie Moms' "Pump Project" reveal that it's better if you have a good sense of humor and realize that life as a pumping mom will never be perfect nor under your control. (Come to think of it, that's probably good advise for anyone out there.)

I realize that only a subset of woman will understand the intense obsession with pumping enough milk for your baby's next meal. But for the rest of you out there - try this analogy: How men equate their manlihood to the size of their penis; us pumping moms equate our womanhood to the number of ounces of breast milk we can eek out each session.

Perhaps it's a small symbol of a much larger feminist dilemma -- I want to be breastfeeding my baby, but I also want to work full-time outside of the home. Why should I have to choose between the two? In years past, women didn't have this choice -- it was probably either figure out a way to give cow's milk (pre-formula invented) or just never leave the baby's side.

I think Emily Bazelon in this Slate article puts it best:

"In the end, breast pumps aren't proof of our maternal dedication or abdication, or evidence of our feminist cowardice. They're a convenience that allows us to have it both ways, for a little while at least. That's not the same thing as having it all, but it's a compromise worth savoring."

It's All About the Boobs

As a new-again mom who is in the throws of around-the-clock breastfeeding, I find myself obsessing about my boobs. In fact, as I was in the shower this morning attempting to keep most of the shampoo suds from running onto my boobs and possibly tainting the baby's next taste, I had to chuckle:

It wasn't too long ago that on any given Thursday morning I'd be stressing about something completely different: whether a website for a major snack bar brand would launch on time; whether the client in California was going to fire us; whether my department would have to write-off a couple thousand dollars because of poor project management.

And now, three weeks into my maternity leave, I'm worried about soap on my boobs. Earlier in the morning -- you know during that 2 am feeding when hazy thoughts rule -- I found myself actually wondering, 'is enough of my areola is his mouth?' And, 'is it the right or left boob that we start on this time?'

My husband is anxiously awaiting the 6-week post partum date when we can start having sex again. I have to say, it's going to be a challenge trying to feel sexy -- especially when my boobs are more like a fucking kitchen appliance than anything sexual. It'll be such a turn-on when we're in the middle of getting it on and the boobs start squirting breast milk across the bed. And while my mind should be on sex and my husband, I'm sure I'll be thinking, 'damn it, that's valuable milk I'm losing.'