Un-Pumped

I think I’m depressed…

For the second time my First Years breast pumped has pooped out on me. It’s a $45 machine with a fickle attitude. I wish I could say it died because I threw it across the room after it suctioned just a bit too long for the thousandth time (holding my poor nipple hostage in a painful pull while it studders on the “natural sucking action”). But I didn’t get the pleasure of hurling the thing. It just conked out, which I discovered around 5:30 this morning as I tried to pump half a bottle before heading off to work.

I hurried the kids off to their respective day care facilities to get to WalMart before work for a replacement. I made pretty good time – leaving by 6:10 and arriving at the store by 6:50.

It doesn’t open until 7 a.m. Huh? I could’ve sworn Wally World was a 24 hour gig… but then this is the shady part of NoVa. So I stood at the closed Entrance door waiting as the late employees shuffled through the partially opened Exit to assume their posts. Five minutes after 7 I was back in my car and $56 poorer. I guess the new machine is an upgrade. It has two pumps for super pumping action (picture a Western, I draw my pumps from the holster bag, spin em around and attack both breasts at once for rapid pumping action – bang bang). At least it doesn’t hurt like the first one did.

Back to my depression, though.

My house is filthy. It’s not easy cleaning up after 3 people, holding an infant in one arm and the selected cleaning gadget in the other.

My back hurts. It’s probably because my morning luggage consists of a baby, a diaper bag, a briefcase with papers I didn’t feel like grading overnight, a breast pump bag, and leftovers for lunch (if I remembered to grab them from the counter where they usually wait for me to return home). I think my grandmother jinxed me with her comment that wearing heels so close to having a baby would make something drop. I don’t know what’s dropping, but I sure do suffer after I wear them. Let’s face it, though. Keds and sneakers don’t go well with dresses and slacks.

I’m exhausted. Ya isn’t sleeping through the night (as is his right at only 10 weeks). He gets up a little earlier each feeding time and stretches the time after eating and before sleeping out further every time. Most of the time he throws up at least once (on my chest or the spot I was sleeping in and forcing a midnight waredrob change or a towel coverage of the soiled spot until the wash can be done).

Did I mention I was broke? Yeah… got a little foolish with the pregnancy pampering of myself and my baby girl and now have to pay the piper. Yikes. Somehow winning the lottery looks like a really great escape, but I don’t have a buck to spare for the ticket. How’s that for luck?

What’s keeping me going? My babies. A smile, a hug, a kiss, a look and I’m momentarily able to forget all the thousands of things going wrong, piling up, or being neglected. I’ll save the moping for the few minutes when they’re asleep and I can stress out in the quiet of this huge prison I call a house with a mortgage the size of the interest on the entire collection of Fort Knox gold bars.

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