I tried “breast feeding”
My wife and I recently had our first child and I was worried that I would not be contributing to feed our son. With the news of the change in terminology from “breast” to “breast”, I decided to try my hand at “breast pumping” after the hospital loaned us a breast pumping machine.
Early one morning, coffee in tow, I plugged in all the tubes and screwed in all the good stuff, took my shirt off, got comfortable, stuck in those horn-like sucking cones on my manly chest with two strips of criss-cross tape, and I went to town. I used the factory recommended settings for the factory recommended duration to make sure I didn’t overdo it in the first session.
I wouldn’t say it was comfortable, but it wasn’t uncomfortable either. At the end of the expression session, I looked for the fruit of my labor. Nothing. Not a drop of expressed breast milk.
The lack of expressed milk did not discourage me. I decided to work harder, believe in myself and have a heart. Men can also be women. I was determined to become a champion breast pumper, producing untold amounts of breast milk.
That’s when I heard about lactation cookies on “yummy mummy” blogs. The cookies promised greater production of “breast” milk (blogs hadn’t heard that “breast” was no longer the preferred nomenclature). The bag I bought recommended consuming two cookies a day. I made sure to have two cookies with every meal.
Cookies weren’t what I would call good; they tasted like a combination of sand mixed with tree bark and kitty litter, and dunking them in a latte did nothing to moisten those overpriced hockey pucks. I didn’t let that stop me. I needed to prove that biology doesn’t matter and that gender is a construct, just like activists tell us. I too could pump the chest. I had to produce.
Every day I expressed, but even after the lactation cookie diet, the results were still the same: nothing.
I pushed and pushed and begged my chest. I told my man boobs it was for baby. I told the knockers that biology is not essential. I changed locations to try and get those milk misses flowing: in cafes, parents hugged their children at the sight of a bent, shirtless, bearded man dipping lactation biscuits into his coffee in the milk and reading the newspaper with two suction trumpets sucking at his chest. When I was kicked out of the “mothers only” milk expression room at the hospital, I explained that the word “mother” is just a fictitious word and that it is the mother’s parents. child, not the hospital, who decides who the mother is. The nurses did not move.
In the end, I learned that no matter how much I expressed my breast or changed my terms or location, I couldn’t even get a microliter of milk. If my kid depended on my honkers, we’d be in trouble. I did my best. In the name of science, I gave it my all. Personally, I blame the cookies. I had been completely misled.
[Calm down, it’s satire.]
Paul Catalanotto has been draining the marshes since 1718…
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