Oh, my electric breast pump,
My enemy, my friend.
How I yearn for but also dread
Our insecure attachment’s end.

You enable me to do all
That a modern mother can:
To work and sleep and sometimes go out
While nursing my little man.

You’re a feat of engineering
In a chic bag I take around;
Efficient and reliable
Discreet but for that sound.

You’ve never hurt me (much),
So I really can’t complain.
But the truth is our relationship
Just might make me insane.

For one there’s all your little parts
In constant need of cleaning
And the tubes that get all tangled up
And send the bottles careening.

Like all convenient devices,
You create problems of your own;
Sometimes we wake with supply decreased,
Other times breasts painfully grown.

But it’s the pressure that really gets me,
Not the suction but the stress.
Three times to get one bottle
Make this mommy’s nerves a mess.

Your yield is quite impressive,
But it’s not as good as baby’s.
I really don’t know why this is
But it’s true for all the ladies.

To make the milk math work out,
I pump before going to bed.
Bad way to end the day for sure
But better than at 3 am instead.

So here we are at 10 pm
Sprawled awkwardly on the floor.
I’m wondering for the hundredth time:
Is this what it means to have more?

We modern gals aim for balance,
What’s best for us and baby, too.
We’ve been told a thousand times that breast is best,
But what’s a working mom to do?

We want to do the “natural” thing,
But there’s more to us than boobs,
So we find ourselves outfitted with
Some plastic thing with tubes.

Our great-grandmas never used machines;
Moms gave bottles when we were little.
But today we’ve got these nifty pumps
So we find ourselves in the middle.

I admit I see no better way,
Can’t have my breasts on constant call.
But still I have to wonder:
Can women really have it all?
 

Pumping and hrmphing,