Long post ahead so please bear with me. 

I don’t know where to begin as I look at the bits and pieces of pumping parts and accessories in front of me.

Finally, after 2 months of stalling, I started organizing, packing, and saying goodbye to my companions for the past 8 months. 

Like many moms, I didn’t choose the pump life, it chose me. 

Mine began long before my second child was born. During my 20-week anatomy scan, the radiologist and doctors explained that because of his medical condition, he wouldn’t be able to latch directly. I was devastated. My firstborn had been exclusively nursed forthree years, and I was excited to do the same with him. 

When he was born, he tried so hard to latch.

"He has a good latch. Unfortunately, he can't suck the milk out." That was how they explained it to me. It was like trying to drink through a straw with a hole in it. You keep trying, but all you get is air.

Since Day 1, I became attached to my pump.

Over the months, pumping became like a mission; I studied and applied. From hospital-grade pumps to wearables, I tried different machines to find what worked best. I researched how to store every precious ounce without spilling it (though I still did). I learned every trick to prevent clogged ducts (though I still got them lol thank you, sunflower lecithin!). I spoke with a lactation consultant to find the right flange size, invested in a deep freezer, and somehow felt like, "I got this!" 

I would pump before leaving the house, during road trips, in the middle of the night, and it became part of our family's schedule. My firstborn would remind me when I'm chilling, "Mom, isn't it your time to pump?"

There were good and bad days. And then there were the days I questioned why I was doing this at all. I could stop. I could finally sleep longer. Maybe I'd feel like myself again. Maybe my mental health would improve. But somehow, I'm back to my chair, getting my pump parts and scrolling on my phone to watch a movie to past the time. My so-called ME time while the world is sleeping. 

Eventually, I knew it was time.

I started dropping sessions. The ounces slowly became drops until one day, I no longer felt engorged. But five days would pass, and I'd find myself pumping again, only to stop once more. I ask why should I miss the sound of the pump in the MOTN? Why do I want to be stuck in a chair again while everyone else carried on with their day? I still don't know. 

I can't remember when I officially stopped. My app says it's been 60 something days, but my heart tells a different story. 

So tonight, out of the blue, I packed my pumping journey into two large paper bags. And I cried because this was me closing the chapter.

But before I stored them away, I pressed the power button one last time, just to hear that familiar sound. The sound I wished would go away until its finally granted. 

My only consolation is the 4 milk bricks tucked away at the bottom of our deep freezer. I'll thaw them when my son undergoes his next surgery. They probably won't provide the same nutritional benefits they would have months ago, and maybe that's okay.

Those bags hold more meaning than just being milk. They hold 8 months of MOTN sessions, sore shoulders, clogged ducts, spilled milk, ugly crying, semi-nervous breakdowns and love. 

.

I stopped pumping 2 months ago. Today, I finally packed it all away.