Before embarking on this Odyssey
we faced a road block. (HA!)
She wouldn’t take
to me or formula
so we were exclusively pumping.
Since we had completely derailed
from our original “birth plan”
we wanted something,
somewhat natural.
I pumped my sleep deprived
little heart out.
That contraption made for cattle
could drive anyone insane.
It was so mechanical,
I would hook myself up
to this machine
– just imagine a dairy factory-
and turn on the switch.
You never get used to it.
I would clinch every time.
I had a log.
I would chart in my time
and quantity,
tallying how much I made
in what amount of time.
This log also inherited
notes, drawings, scribbles,
blood, sweat, tears and gold.
I had to maintain stock.
This was my ritual
several times a day
for over an hour each time.
My dreaded sacrament;
Setup, pump, tally, store.
I would wash every
Medela piece and bottle
by hand with hot water
and detergent.
Compose yet again
for our next affair.
The skin on my hands
were peeling off.
Every moment of my day
was engaged to this machine.
The thought still tenders a flinch,
and its song is a suction tune
you could live without ever hearing.
I tried not to think ahead,
because it generally send me
in a downward spiral.
I just focused on the task at hand.
I had a cooler with
soiled parts and bottles.
I hooked myself to the car,
I pumped Across America
A labyrinth relationship,
a sadistic forced union.
Written by a true lunatic,
I meant mother.
Maybe I could have been
a more stable mother
had we figured out how to latch
or how to formula.
Or how to not not move
Soon after having a child
I was only functioning
to survive another hour.
When it was all said and done
I bathed it in gasoline
and thew a match,
I kid.
Extra TMI 👇
The end.
Legos and Liquor 