So... in pregnancy I was suffering under the allusion, or rather delusion, that the burden of relentless nocturnal feeds could be spread by expressing milk in advance. How sensible and obvious you'd think? Just hook yourself up to a milking machine and hey presto a fine pint of gold top ready to be stored in the fridge for use whenever you've a) contaminated ongoing supplies with one too many vinos of an evening or b) when someone, ideally hubby, offers to take on a feed for you so you can sleep (Or party...are you seeing a theme?)
Errr wrong! Turns out that anything other than military planning and precision in relation to 'expression' will result in devastating consequences. Too soon after a feed and the tanks are still empty...so you undergo the 'cow being milked' scenario for longer than necessary AND feel like a failure when you achieve a measly few millilitres. Wait until later and you may be able to high-five yourself for your voluminous output and stockpiling abilities...but when your little one awakes ravenous and finds the cupboards bare you will suffer the wrath of the wailing banshee until you conced defeat and raid your precious stash.
Also there a fragile balance to be achieved to avoid discomfort. Surely giving over responsibility for a feed should be a pleasure? e.g. extra hours of uninterrupted slumber. Yet beware the missed feed and the arrival of shakira's "breasts like mountains"...think of the Rockies rather than the Alps! You also risk waking up in a puddle of breast milk, wondering who wet the bed...which is hardly the glorious extra rest you'd hoped for. Ditto the long awaited night out...the preparation goes as follows; milk expressed over preceding days (tick)...heels on (tick)...enjoying cocktails with the girls (tick)... only to be undermined by a heaving, leaking bosom at midnight and the need to rediscover hand expression in the pub toilets! Classy.
Whilst I'm ranting...I'm also convinced my milking machine has become less effective. Either that or my breasts are staging a protest against tyranny of the plastic pump. Admittedly I feel no love for expressing, therefore no oxytocin...but I'm not sure I feel massive love for my daughter as the empty stomach starts bawling at 3am..or 5am. (Unfortunately I'm not in the club where every breastfeeding session is joyous bonding experience...some sessions are painful..and dare I say it dull!)
So why bother? Well, because it offers a lifeline to freedom. Despite it being supremely tedious (sterilising the multiple tubes, bottles, valves and assorted paraphenalia) there is entertainment to be salvaged from the look of shock around the breakfast table as I model my latest attempt at hands-expression, and satisfaction to be gained from labelling little plastic storage bags for the freezer as 150ml, 15/11/13.( I am a sad Tupperware fanatic in my spare time!)
Sadly however the rumours are true. If I drink of an evening, I have less to give in the morning, if I eat poorly and don't take on a full meal, milk output is also reduced...boringly R&R equals more milk and more cream ( and yes you tell!). Mornings are better than evenings. One side seems more productive than the other. Blah blah blah.
Of course I could just reach for the formula..and perhaps I shall...but then what would l have to whinge about?!
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