Thursday, July 12, 2012

Pumping & Dumping Makes Me Sad

I don't have anything really profound to say here, but pumping and dumping depresses me way more than it should.

I went out to dinner with my hubby for our anniversary tonight. I waited on the platform for the G train for a half hour, which made me 40 minutes late for a fancy dinner at our favorite restaurant, Eleven Madison Park. It was so hot down there in the subway that I actually welcomed the several trains coming into the station from the other direction because they sort of blew a hot breeze in my direction, which was better than no breeze. F you, G train.

Anyway, we split a wine pairing and had some "complimentary" champagne Cognac at the end. (I say complimentary because, really, when you are paying that much for dinner, the Cognac is sort of baked into the price, wouldn't you say?) I also had a little dairy along the way, which does not seem to agree with poor Henry's little tummy. The kitchen was nice enough to replace the cheese course with four leaves of well dressed baby lettuce (yay for me) and replace the whole milk in the "egg cream" with soy milk (again, yay for me), but I wasn't going to ask the restaurant to rearrange the entire tasting menu so I could avoid dairy.

So between the alcohol and the dairy, and missing the bedtime feeding, I decided to pump and dump. I don't know why, but as I poured the milk down the drain I felt this wave of sadness wash over me. For a split second, I even thought, Could I give this to the dog so it doesn't go to waste? Then I threw up a little in my mouth and continued pouring.

I'm not sure what it is about dumping the milk that makes me so sad. My supply is thankfully fine, and I have a good stock of 2.5-ounce vials of frozen milk in the freezer. It just seems like I am being horribly wasteful, even cheating my son out of the liquid gold I make for him every day. It made me want to wake him up and cuddle. (But I didn't. Because I'm not that stupid.)

Is this what it is going to be like when I finally wean him off the boob? Will I still be his Moo Cow when I'm no longer his moo cow? These are the thoughts that swim through my head at 2am.