“Please, Baby. Please eat.” I droned to her tiny, flailing body. But, it was no use. What is wrong with me? I thought, beginning to panic myself. No matter what I tried, my perfect new baby found by breasts absolutely loathsome. Glancing down at the grotesquely engorged lumps that were recently two of my best features, I couldn’t blame her.

“That’s it! I don’t care!” I screamed to the worthless, slouching, absolutely-good-for-nothing-father-of-my-child over shrill screams as I reached for the formula. As soon as the nipple of the bottle entered her wailing mouth, silence.

“She’s doing it!” I whispered ecstatically to Joey, my now wonderful, attentive, supportive, there-for-me-no-matter-what, loving husband. “She’s eating!”

I was feeding my baby formula, despite my strong feelings that “breast is best.” It was impossible to know how to feel.

The next morning, despite my own fear at being “milked” by a somewhat menacing (and noisy) machine, I finally submitted myself to the dreaded breast pump. I will never forget the moment I first flipped the switch.

The room was quiet. I waited for total silence, and absolute solitude. This was definitely a time for privacy. My hands shook with nervous energy as I checked and re-checked the pump settings I had chosen. I certainly didn’t want to rip my nipple off by turning the suction force on too high. But, the suck-speed was a much more difficult decision. The mere thought of a fast suck made me cringe with dread. However, I came to realize (after hours of reading the pumping manual) that a slow, lingering suck, if improperly positioned on the breast, could be equally as painful. I chose a mid-way suck-speed, opted to test my settings on only one breast first (I was pacing myself), and I assumed the position.

I knew, even before I flipped the switch, that the attempt would fail. It said so right in the manual. “FOR BEST RESULTS, RELAX BEFORE EXPRESSING MILK.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” I said to myself. But, there was nothing I could do. There was no drug in the world that could ever make me relax at a time like this. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. With my right hand gently securing the transparent breast funnel to the exact center of my breast, I said a quick prayer and flipped the switch.

sssssSSSSSSHHHHHHHHH bump sssssSSSSSSHHHHHHHHH bump…

“Oh… my… gosh.”

sssssSSSSSSHHHHHHHHH bump sssssSSSSSSHHHHHHHHH bump…

I looked at my horrifically distorting breast. “This can not be real,” I whispered in the shattered silence of the room. I gawked at the absurd developments on my chest in horror and amazement. “There is no way that this can be good for my breast.”

After the initial shock passed, I was able to revert back to inner monologue. At least it’s working, I thought, as I watched the creamy white liquid appear again and again from a peak on my now-grotesque body. I will die if Joey walks in right now.

Fortunately, there was no pain. The physical feeling was curiously satisfying. There was, however, a great deal of humiliation and confusion. Using that breast pump was hands-down, the most unnatural experience I have ever encountered.

So, what’s the point of my humbling story? After relaying parts (rarely in this much detail) of this story to select friends and family, I was often chastised for some of my decisions. No, not the ones about suck-speed. Many people were curious about why I bothered going through all the trouble of pumping, instead of just continuing to bottle feed.

Although my occasional response to their inquiries involved instructions on where they could stick their curiosity, my more usual (and much more gracious) answer was this: my decision to pump was not about me. It was about setting a standard for my new life as a mother. I knew that if I allowed myself to take the easy way out of my very first challenge, it would have – in some strange way – lowered my parenting standard right at the starting line. That’s it, though a bit oversimplified, I’ll admit.

Although this “standard theory” may seem overly dramatic to some, I am okay with it. I am a writer, after all, and drama works for me.

As for the other drama-mamas out there, try to keep a stiff upper-tit. After all, your baby will not be a baby forever, and soon this will all be an incredibly weird and embarrassing memory. Until then, keep on pumping!