Whoever invented that idiom was probably male and obviously had never had the pleasure of hooking himself up to a breast pump. Pumping is the bane of my existence, but a necessary evil if I am to enjoy any independence from my li'l Lilahbility.
Every drop of breastmilk is precious, and spilling some of the hard-earned liquid has always, at the very least, elicited a swear word or two from me, if not tears. (Okay, the tears were more during my extremely hormonal early postpartum days, but still!) I now understand why one dad I know refers to the stuff as "liquid gold."
Around 9:30 every morning after Lilah goes down for her first nap of the day, the familiar sound of the pump can be heard around our apartment- in fact, that's what's playing in the background at this very moment! Shhhh... can you hear it? Suck-suck, slurp-slurp, they're playing my song!
Personally, in one pumping session, I can only pump a quarter to a third of what Lilah takes during a big feed. That means three or four days of pumping for one measly bedtime bottle.
Bagging, labelling, freezing, and counting my store of milk in the freezer has become almost a compulsion for me. All is right with the world if I have 40-50 ounces stored up. Any less than that, and I start to get a little edgy. Those little plastic bags in the freezer are the key to my freedom!
So now are you really going to tell me not to cry over spilt milk, Mr. Idiom-Maker-Upper-Man?