Christian Grey is actually… a breast pump?

{This entry is recycled from July 2010.  As I was rereading it for Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop, I thought that I was reading an excerpt from an alternate version of 50 Shades of Grey.  You know, the one that SHOULD have happened, where Ana runs far, far away from that controlling, abusive douchebag.  Christian Grey even liked breastmilk.  IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW.}

Dear Medela Pump In Style Advanced,

We both knew this day was coming.  After all, these types of relationships aren’t meant to last forever.  Things change.  People change.  People grow up, they get older, and they no longer need expressed breast milk.  But I want you to believe me when I say it’s not you, it’s me.

When we first started our relationship, I was skittish and leery, but I was determined to make it work.  You were very intimidating, though.  Pipes, flanges, tabs, knobs, buttons, bottles, you made my head spin.  But I have always liked ’em a little complicated, so I was drawn to you like a moth to a flickering flame.  The allure was there.  And to your credit, you lived up to all your promises.  You did everything you told me you would.  I was able to give my child nothing but breast milk to drink for his first year of life (and then some).  In fact, thanks to you, I am still going strong nursing my baby, and I have a great stash in my freezer, so CJ will continue to get breast milk for a while longer.  And the money.  Oh, the cash you saved me.  When you first threw those dollar bills around, I was hooked.  Over the past 13 months, you have helped me save over $1,300, and quite possibly more than that because CJ was lactose intolerant and had slight reflux issues (thankfully he outgrew both).  I am all about holding on to my dollars, and I knew that if I stuck with you it would really benefit my bank account.

But breast pump, two kept promises are not enough to sustain a relationship.  You have your flaws.  The trips to work with me every day SUCKED.  Like I didn’t have enough to haul around without you dragging me down.  You’re so freaking high maintenance, too.  I had to carry you in, make sure you were comfortable, unpack you, repack you, carry you out.  Come home, wash bottles, sterilize parts, repack you.  And you never lifted a finger to help.  Just because I’m the human with opposable thumbs and you’re a bit of machinery powered by electricity, I’m supposed to do all the work.  I bet you think it was my job just because I’m a woman, you misogynistic piece of crap.

Our relationship also became very co-dependent.  If I went too long without you, I started to ache.  And dear Lord, were you demanding.  Every three hours at work I had to check in with you.  I couldn’t even take a lunch break for fear of upsetting you.  I felt like I couldn’t get away from you.  If I wasn’t with my child, you had to come along.  Even when I was with my child, say, on a trip out of town, somehow you managed to worm your way into the car for the trip.  You had to go on vacations, trips to visit my parents, sometimes you even went on shopping trips with me.  I really think you need to work on the whole overbearing smothering thing you’ve got going on.  It’s really not going to help you maintain a lasting relationship with anyone.

But honestly, I don’t really think you’re made for a long-term relationship.  The pain you have caused me will not soon be forgotten.  The first couple of months were torture.  Then we settled into an uneasy level of comfort, but I was still annoyed with having to spend so much time with you.  But towards the end?  More pain.  My poor nipples have taken enough abuse from you.  They are tired of looking like ground beef.  They are tired of being so sensitive.  I have enough to worry about nursing a child with a mouth full of teeth.  Why should I continue to subject myself to your brand of torture?  What do I have to prove?  Nothing.

So, breast pump, we had a good run.  Eleven months is longer than most Hollywood marriages these days.  I’m very happy that you came into my life for a time, but all good things must come to an end, as they say.  And really, I’m okay with it.  REALLY.

Because when I say “it’s not you, it’s me”, I really mean it’s you.

Smoochies,

Rachel


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