This post is by Naomi de la Torre
Ever since I was forced to be pump-dependent for 6 months while my son was tongue-tied and couldn’t nurse, I’ve had this glorious vision of myself beating my breast pump to smithereens like that scene from the movie Office Space where the employees murder the diabolical fax machine.
The only reason I never did the dirty deed is because, unfortunately, I still needed the pump occasionally. (For overnight dates and such.) And it cost $320. Which is probably too much to pay for ten minutes of demented retribution.
And yet, whenever I had to pull out the wretched thing and actually use it, those monstrous feelings of revenge rose inside of me like the bitterest bile and I couldn’t help myself. After killing it slowly with my eyes the whole time I pumped, I felt entitled to give it just a little kick when done as I stowed it away in the darkest reaches of my closet.
I should be grateful, I guess. That pump worked silently and tirelessly for me while I railed insults and spit in its general direction. It never put up a fuss. It never broke down. It never gave me a dirty look or tried to leave me by the side of the road for dead.
My hatred had no rightful origin. Except that when I think about the pump, I can’t help but remember the hundreds of hours I spent half-naked—my fat, postpartum, gelatinous belly hanging out, my enormous hooters hooked up to wires and tubes, my pride in the toilet—while my friends and family looked on and pretended not to be horrified by the spectacle.
It was never my intention to force my loved ones to be privy to such an abomination, but if I had pumped alone, I would have spent the entire six months incarcerated in my bedroom, while my baby screamed, my three year old destroyed the house, and my friends pretended they enjoyed sitting in my living room by themselves.
But I’m over it now. Just the other weekend, my husband and I enjoyed a night of overnight babysitting from my sister-in-law and for the first time since Diego was born I didn’t have to pump when I woke in the morning. Oh sure, there was still a little extra milk in there, but not enough to require a full pump-off.
It was miraculous! It was divine! I thought about throwing a party, or buying a cake, or doing something spectacular to celebrate, but then I realized that it might be weird to invite my friends over for a party in honor of my empty breasts. And that’s when I spied the baseball bat in the corner.
With my husband still asleep, I snatched the pump, ran into the backyard, and tied up that bad boy like a piñata. I’m not even going to tell you what happened next. I don’t want to give you nightmares. Suffice it to say I had my own little fiesta out in the backyard. And nobody went home with any party favors.