Here I sit, at home, watching the kids. The wife’s away on an overnight biz trip and I’m feeding the kids, changing diapers, doing laundry, giving baths… you know, being a mom. But what to do about feeding the newborn? While my chest is quite nice, it just doesn’t cut it in the infant nourishment department.
So, I devise an ingenious plan. I’ll go to the park and ask the mommies there if anyone can spare a quart or two. Sounds strange but hey, my kid needs to eat. As I ready for the park, I get a ‘checking in to see if everyone’s still alive’ call from the wife. After a few minutes of insults where I hear how my memory is shot, and how she told me–5 times!– about how I was going to feed the baby, she informs me that she “pumped” and left 12 bottles in the garage refrigerator. “Pumped?”, I wonder. Pumped what?
So, I walk to the garage, open the fridge and find 12 bottles of yellowish liquid staring back at me. Damn, she wasn’t kidding. I had no idea this could be done. She didn’t do this for the first kid, did she? I was working long hours back then but could I be so deaf, dumb and blind as to not notice or remember that?
What kind of machine must this be, this pumping thing? Does it look like a baby? Or is it like the metallic, machine-like gadget that cows must endure with half-smiles? I gotta see this. So, I begin my search. I check the baby’s room, the closet, the toy chest, the window sill. Nothing. On a whim, I return to the garage and…. there it is: a strangely horrific looking contraption with freaky suction-type things hanging off of tubes. Oh, dear Lord!
I return from the garage shivering with fear. I sit in the kitchen staring out the window, thinking to myself… what kind of a world do I live in where women willingly subject themselves to strange sucking instruments without the promise of even an ounce of satisfaction?! But, as I continue to ponder, a thought comes to mind that makes it all okay. Women are used to this. They’re always sacrificing. It’s just their way.
I fall into a deep sleep there, head on the kitchen counter, hand absently placed in a dirty diaper I forgot to throw out, until my son comes in and asks me what I’m doing? I stand as if nothing’s amiss and tell him not to worry, all is right with the world. “We are men”, I tell him. “And there are women in the world to make everything okay.”
My son looks at me, approaches, and then smacks me on the back of my head. He turns and walk away.
I wonder, what was that for? Guess he doesn’t agree with me. Oh well, what does he know, he’s only four. He’ll learn.
another great post! Keep them coming Dad! I’ve been forwarding your blog to my friends at work. And I love lifeworkalliance.com. What an interesting, and very necessary site. Thank you!
I love your perspective! As an aunt, I had similar questions about pumping when my sister started to do it, and I have a Ph.D. in child development! Another reason to thank your wife: feeding your baby is a special time for social interaction (for a TON of reasons, including being at just the right distance from your infant for them to actually be able to focus on you). It is so wonderful that men can now participate in this time, as well.