Siren Song

Except it isn’t sung by Sirens.  It’s sung by the breast pump.  Everyone in the house is drawn to it.  Hunter, the cat, the dog, my five-year-old niece (whom I may have scarred by using it in front of her…).

It is particularly bad first thing in the morning.  Maybe it’s because the morning session is the first opportunity anyone has for access to me.  The dog is easily waved away, but the cat presents more of a problem.  He generally makes an effort to sit on my lap while I’m pumping and I’ve tried to let him do so, but being not very smart, he usually gets himself tangled in the plastic tubes.  If he manages to get comfortable in my lap without incident, I am still unable to pet him, my hands being otherwise occupied, so he acts out by attacking the aforementioned plastic tubes.  I just love spilling sticky breast milk on myself.

Hunter presents a different challenge.  Sometimes she does just want to snuggle while I’m pumping and it’s easy enough to have her curl up next to me, but mostly, she wants to help.  Initially we had the same discussion (while she stood in front of me with her shirt pulled up to her chin) about why the breast pump wouldn’t work on her.  That led to the development of the distinction between boobies and chee-chees.  Hunter has chee-chees that don’t make milk, and, well, you get the idea.  Now Hunter wants to lay across my knees and hold the collection bottles.  I just love spilling sticky breast milk on myself.

I suppose this could all be avoided by breastfeeding properly but I like to know how much milk Magnus is eating and Michael likes to feed him too.  For now, I’ll just have to hope that the novelty will wear off and everyone will let me pump in peace.