To say that Im goal-oriented and numbers-focused might an understatement.
I once kept a spreadsheet of the number of pages Id read of books I was readingfor fun.
And when I had a job running a website, Id routinely unwind at night by stalking analytics.
So when I took a breastfeeding class during pregnancy, a few numbers lodged themselves into my brain.
My number-crunching, overachieving Tracy Flick side perked up.
Could it be that this would be the first way Id be graded as a mom?
I had 365 days to unlock my firstAin parenting.
With this miraculous rig, Icouldhave it all, I blindly concluded.
I pictured myself tapping away on my laptop as that liquid cure-all flowed from my body.
This contraption promised freedom: the freedom to workandparent.
My breast pump would be my new best friend.
In reality, pumping was not the line to freedom Id hoped to be.
It was more like a ball and chain.
My irritation grew with each session.
As my output dwindled, my stress mounted.
I tried to squeeze in a fourth session at work, and then one before bed.
At one point I added a middle-of-the-night pumping session on top of my sons multiple wakeups.
But during these late-night pump sessions my mechanical companion offered no such solace.
Instead, it only exacerbated my already frayed, zombie-like state of mind.
I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my overworked, underperforming chest.
But even though scaling back made pumping more manageable, it didnt make each session any more tolerable.
Finally, around the 9-month mark, I decided toquit pumpingaltogether.
Id like to say I made this decision with 100 percent confidence.
I logically know that I made the best choice for myself and my kid.
After all, being a happier, less-stressed person makes me a better mom.
However, Idofind myself looking back, not necessarily with regret, but with some complicated feelings.
When talking to other moms, I often find myself skirting the issue.
I nod along as others talk about it, as though Im still with them aboard the pumping train.
Why is that so hard?
Am I that afraid of their judgement?
When I do come clean about quitting, I tend to be self-deprecating about it.
On one hand, I totally get why my breastfeeding class instructor set the bar at a year.
Im trying to be better myself when I talk to new and expecting moms.
I attempt to bite back words that unintentionally diminish my efforts or the valid choice to formula feed.
Is he a kind, thoughtful person?
Am I there when he needs me?
There are limitations to what the numbers can tell us.
