by Leah
I toyed with including a photo of me pumping to illustrate, but decided to spare you all.
For a pastor I am shockingly bad at carving out regular time to connect with God. I'm great at throwing a prayer in God's general direction on the fly, particularly when a parishioner's needs are foremost in my mind; not so good with the discipline of making time for God and me in a consistent, daily way. Usually I rely on Lent to prompt me to make a vow to pray daily, knowing I'll feel bad enough about breaking a promise to God (and myself) that I will pray consistently for at least 40 days...leaving only 325 days of scattershot prayer to tackle. But heck, I am 30 years old now, a grownup and a minister who better be praying regularly if she wants to be able to offer her flock any kind of spiritual depth.
So I felt like a spiritual genius when, during the first few weeks back at work, I decided that my commute into the office (approx. 20-30 minutes) was going to be my prayer time. I'll be a captive in my car, I thought. No distractions (radio off), no baby or significant other needing my attention...perfect!
I toyed with including a photo of me pumping to illustrate, but decided to spare you all.
For a pastor I am shockingly bad at carving out regular time to connect with God. I'm great at throwing a prayer in God's general direction on the fly, particularly when a parishioner's needs are foremost in my mind; not so good with the discipline of making time for God and me in a consistent, daily way. Usually I rely on Lent to prompt me to make a vow to pray daily, knowing I'll feel bad enough about breaking a promise to God (and myself) that I will pray consistently for at least 40 days...leaving only 325 days of scattershot prayer to tackle. But heck, I am 30 years old now, a grownup and a minister who better be praying regularly if she wants to be able to offer her flock any kind of spiritual depth.
So I felt like a spiritual genius when, during the first few weeks back at work, I decided that my commute into the office (approx. 20-30 minutes) was going to be my prayer time. I'll be a captive in my car, I thought. No distractions (radio off), no baby or significant other needing my attention...perfect!
And some days, it went great. I'd have deep, soul-strengthening moments, or an inspiration on whom to pray for or what to preach the following Sunday. I even wrote a sermon on the way to work (in my head, not on my phone). But other days I'd feel distracted and scattered, arriving at work only to realize I'd spent most of my commute composing a grocery list or thinking about what I needed to accomplish at work instead of paying attention to God. Or sometimes I would be able to focus diligently on my task, but my prayers felt perfunctory and flat and I was hearing nothing back. I tried to remind myself that, as Roberta Bondi says in To Pray and to Love,* her excellent book on the teachings of the Ammas and the Abbas about prayer, prayer is not so much about success as it is about continuing to show up, regardless of success.
Then daycare started, and suddenly I had a cute little person in the car with me making noises and generally distracting me from prayer with her utterly charming ways/demands for me to pacify her by twisting my arm out of its socket into the backseat and using the rearview mirror to aim her binky** back into her mouth without crashing the car.
So there went that.
But then it occurred to me that, as a working mama feeding her child with breastmilk, I was pumping*** for 10-15 minutes twice a day and I might as well make that my prayer time! No distractions (except when my coworker thinks it's funny to come bang on the door of "The Barn," our designated pumping room. You figure out why it's called that). No highway exits to keep an eye out for or crazy drivers to avoid. And relaxing yourself and clearing your mind are prerequisites to getting your milking mojo on...just as they are prerequisites for prayer. Perfect!
Only, when I started pumping 3 times at work instead of just 2 to meet Little Bit's growing milk demands, I ran into a dry spell. My boobs went on strike for that 3rd pumping (and for an additional pumping in the evening) and nothing books/internets/friends told me to do worked. Visualizing my baby, smelling her onesie****, conjuring up a relaxing beach scene or a soothing massage...Zip. Nada. (Well, visualizing a glass of red wine worked once...but only once.) My nipples were the size of jumbo crayons and all I was getting for my troubles was a few cubic milimeters per side and colleagues wondering where I'd disappeared to as I tried to force milk out of my chest for ever more extended periods of time.
I was feeling anxious and doubtful, despairing of ever being able to pump enough for my daughter and worrying that I'd have to supplement with formula. (Formula is a great solution for thousands of mamas and babies, but if you still want to majority breastfeed, relying on it too much can be a slippery slope leading to even further decrease in production.) Mainly, though, I was just wondering what was wrong with my body, why it was refusing to cooperate. When your own tissue rebels against you, it can be truly disconcerting.
So I started praying. Not talking to God about my day, or spending time in devotional wonderment at the Divine, but basically just pleading that my letdown would kick in and I'd squeeze out a few ounces. Once or twice I even haggled with God to just give me enough to feed my baby for the rest of the day, since the daycare ladies had called wondering where the rest of Little Bit's milk was and I had no formula to hand. Talk about pressure to PRODUCE!
Sometimes my prayers would work, and I would feel this glorious relief and a heady rush of gratitude (and milk). "Thank you Jesus!" I'd murmur, and relax into the satisfying sensation of my ducts spraying on high volume.
But other times, I'd still be dry and sore with nothing to show but a milk-splattered top and frustration lines carved into my forehead.
Once again I Googled, Facebooked my alma mater's parenting group, and emailed friends whom I knew were pumping in an effort to figure something, anything, out. I ramped my intake of anise seeds way up, drank more water, and tried to relax. I felt like Pamela Anderson but still couldn't get more milk volume; finally I just gave up trying to pump those additional times.
But then I read from friends/the internets that pumping consistently at the same time, even when nothing is coming out, will eventually, over multiple days, signal to your body that it needs to produce more milk. Same thing with pumping 5-10 minutes after the last drop has come out during your existing pumps. Counterintuitively, it seemed there was a purpose to pumping even when parched. (See what I did there? Hard to resist some good alliteration....or maybe that's just me.)
Suddenly my whole perspective changed. My extra pumping sessions didn't have to be anxiety-filled negotiations with God--please let it work this time; why won't my body do what I ask??--but instead I could just show up and let the dry spell work its magic. It was then that I remembered the teaching of the Ammas and the Abbas: consistently showing up, even--especially--when there appear to be no results will always, eventually, bear fruit.
Sure enough, after two or three days of dry pumping at work and at night, voilà! milk deluge. Little Bit is no longer in danger of starving, and Mama is a much less anxious milker.
Now to the real challenge: applying this insight to my prayer life instead of just my boobs.
Amen.
*Currently my bathroom reading. Does anyone else find they only have time for devotional/Bible reading on the toilet?? Sadly, this habit predates Little Bit so I can't even blame it on having a baby.
**That's American slang for pacifier--"dummy" to all you Brits.
***I would like to herein give a non-partisan shoutout to the Affordable Care Act passed by the U.S. Congress, because it means American insurance companies now have to cover a 2-sided electric breast pump for any woman who has recently given birth. Decent electric breast pumps can cost over $400, which can be a hurdle for working class and even middle class moms like me trying to both provide for their families and breastfeed their babies. I get a little choked up realizing how much of a difference it makes to so many women to be able to afford to do this--not to mention the difference it makes for their employers to have those women back in the workplace!
****Known to Brits as a babygro.
Then daycare started, and suddenly I had a cute little person in the car with me making noises and generally distracting me from prayer with her utterly charming ways/demands for me to pacify her by twisting my arm out of its socket into the backseat and using the rearview mirror to aim her binky** back into her mouth without crashing the car.
So there went that.
But then it occurred to me that, as a working mama feeding her child with breastmilk, I was pumping*** for 10-15 minutes twice a day and I might as well make that my prayer time! No distractions (except when my coworker thinks it's funny to come bang on the door of "The Barn," our designated pumping room. You figure out why it's called that). No highway exits to keep an eye out for or crazy drivers to avoid. And relaxing yourself and clearing your mind are prerequisites to getting your milking mojo on...just as they are prerequisites for prayer. Perfect!
Only, when I started pumping 3 times at work instead of just 2 to meet Little Bit's growing milk demands, I ran into a dry spell. My boobs went on strike for that 3rd pumping (and for an additional pumping in the evening) and nothing books/internets/friends told me to do worked. Visualizing my baby, smelling her onesie****, conjuring up a relaxing beach scene or a soothing massage...Zip. Nada. (Well, visualizing a glass of red wine worked once...but only once.) My nipples were the size of jumbo crayons and all I was getting for my troubles was a few cubic milimeters per side and colleagues wondering where I'd disappeared to as I tried to force milk out of my chest for ever more extended periods of time.
I was feeling anxious and doubtful, despairing of ever being able to pump enough for my daughter and worrying that I'd have to supplement with formula. (Formula is a great solution for thousands of mamas and babies, but if you still want to majority breastfeed, relying on it too much can be a slippery slope leading to even further decrease in production.) Mainly, though, I was just wondering what was wrong with my body, why it was refusing to cooperate. When your own tissue rebels against you, it can be truly disconcerting.
So I started praying. Not talking to God about my day, or spending time in devotional wonderment at the Divine, but basically just pleading that my letdown would kick in and I'd squeeze out a few ounces. Once or twice I even haggled with God to just give me enough to feed my baby for the rest of the day, since the daycare ladies had called wondering where the rest of Little Bit's milk was and I had no formula to hand. Talk about pressure to PRODUCE!
Sometimes my prayers would work, and I would feel this glorious relief and a heady rush of gratitude (and milk). "Thank you Jesus!" I'd murmur, and relax into the satisfying sensation of my ducts spraying on high volume.
But other times, I'd still be dry and sore with nothing to show but a milk-splattered top and frustration lines carved into my forehead.
Once again I Googled, Facebooked my alma mater's parenting group, and emailed friends whom I knew were pumping in an effort to figure something, anything, out. I ramped my intake of anise seeds way up, drank more water, and tried to relax. I felt like Pamela Anderson but still couldn't get more milk volume; finally I just gave up trying to pump those additional times.
But then I read from friends/the internets that pumping consistently at the same time, even when nothing is coming out, will eventually, over multiple days, signal to your body that it needs to produce more milk. Same thing with pumping 5-10 minutes after the last drop has come out during your existing pumps. Counterintuitively, it seemed there was a purpose to pumping even when parched. (See what I did there? Hard to resist some good alliteration....or maybe that's just me.)
Suddenly my whole perspective changed. My extra pumping sessions didn't have to be anxiety-filled negotiations with God--please let it work this time; why won't my body do what I ask??--but instead I could just show up and let the dry spell work its magic. It was then that I remembered the teaching of the Ammas and the Abbas: consistently showing up, even--especially--when there appear to be no results will always, eventually, bear fruit.
Sure enough, after two or three days of dry pumping at work and at night, voilà! milk deluge. Little Bit is no longer in danger of starving, and Mama is a much less anxious milker.
Now to the real challenge: applying this insight to my prayer life instead of just my boobs.
Amen.
*Currently my bathroom reading. Does anyone else find they only have time for devotional/Bible reading on the toilet?? Sadly, this habit predates Little Bit so I can't even blame it on having a baby.
**That's American slang for pacifier--"dummy" to all you Brits.
***I would like to herein give a non-partisan shoutout to the Affordable Care Act passed by the U.S. Congress, because it means American insurance companies now have to cover a 2-sided electric breast pump for any woman who has recently given birth. Decent electric breast pumps can cost over $400, which can be a hurdle for working class and even middle class moms like me trying to both provide for their families and breastfeed their babies. I get a little choked up realizing how much of a difference it makes to so many women to be able to afford to do this--not to mention the difference it makes for their employers to have those women back in the workplace!
****Known to Brits as a babygro.