An ode to the pumping mom

My boobs are starting to leak, they always know when

It’s been a few hours and it’s time to pump again

It doesn’t matter that I’m in the middle of doing my job

My boobs need to be emptied and they’re starting to throb

So I scurry to gather all of my pumping supplies

Membranes and breast shields and bottles oh my!

I make my way downstairs to my lactation suite

Where I’m surrounded by boxes of restaurant supplies and concrete

Expressing breast milk in a basement is a bit obscene

But it’s the only place with an outlet where I can remain unseen

There is a life size Santa downstairs that seems to stare

He sees me while I’m pumping, he knows when I’m bare

I fumble with the pump as I try to find something on YouTube

Trying not to focus on the amount of milk coming out of my boob

From above, I hear the sound of the door chiming and plates clattering

I allowed myself to get distracted and now my milk is splattering

I can’t clean myself up because I forgot to pack a cloth

And nothing stains a shirt worse than milk froth

Now I’m becoming frantic because this is taking too long

And I barely have 2 ounces from each side, what is wrong

So I tell myself that I’m finished, this has to be enough

At times, being a breastfeeding mom is rough

I pack up my things, I’m all done for now

Sometimes I really just feel like a cow.

3 thoughts on “An ode to the pumping mom

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