These are expensive. These taste awful. It’s worse than awful. Downing all these herbal pills and tinctures tastes like I’m in the oral section of a hippie orgy and I’m not the one receiving.
This is all to increase my milk supply because TJ refuses formula. This is not a formula versus breastmilk debate. I personally have no issue with people who choose one way or the other, or a combination. TJ hates formula and when my mom, who is watching him for the next month while I’m at work, offers him a bottle, he refuses, fusses and gags. But with breastmilk, it’s like he’s in Cabo, gulping down a margarita at Señor Frog’s.
So I breastfeed and pump and repeat zen litanies in my head because I can’t let any stress affect my lactation station. It’s particularly difficult when I’m in Whole Foods and my mother says, “You should save more money,” and I just grit my teeth and answer, “Well, that would be easier if someone didn’t buy cans of sardines that cost five dollars each!” And I shut my eyes and travel to that special zen cave in my mind when later she says, “WHY ARE YOU PRETTY TODAY!?” Like there must be an prisoner-of-war-style interrogation if I don’t look like I’m still in labor, if I dare decide to sweep some blush across my orangepeel-sized pores.
I’ve been pumping before I go to bed and pumping the first thing in the morning. It’s getting better at work because I’ve been sticking to a schedule of doing it three times a day.
The pills and pumping have helped, although my body now smells like I did the nasty with a plate of waffles. Don’t get me wrong, I used to knock the boots with my breakfast, but I would just take a shower, cry underneath the hot spray, “UNCLEAN! UNCLEAN!” and I would go about my day. Now the sickening maple smell follows me.
I know all of this is working since I wake up in the night and my chest is soaked. Another benefit is that I’m both feeding my hungry baby and winning a wet t-shirt without the use of water. It’s almost like being back in Cabo. Almost.