But it didn’t work out that way. My kid is a crap breastfeeder and I tried everything: lactation consultants, suck training, finger feeders, tube feeding, etc. That experience was heartbreaking, maddening, painful and lonely. I settled on a hospital-grade breastpump, the Medela Symphony, with a backup Pump In Style for long car trips — along with the guidance of a truly fantastic lactation consultant. I have spent literally weeks attached to this thing. At first, a minimum of eight times a day. Now, about four or five. I’ve watched ounces drip down into the bottles. I carefully record the amounts in one journal, and then another.

The amounts have gotten smaller and smaller, from 34 ounces in a day to maybe 12. Soon, there will be less and then none. I will have to give back my rental pump, and unshackle myself permanently. No more tubes, connectors, flanges, membranes to clean, boil, assemble, clean, boil, assemble. I will have to completely count on the ramekins of food I prepare four times a day, the trainer cups full of plant milks that I offer to sustain and grow my child. It will be the first step in a long road toward independence.

I feel alternately burdened by and grateful for the months I’ve spent pumping. I wish I had never needed it, but I’m so grateful to have had the pump. If I wasn’t able to live out my initial vision of being a granola breastfeeder, at least I was able to slog through pain and disappointment to get some small part of it to come true.