If you’ve read my blog before, then you know that I have a little problem with milk overproduction. While certainly better than the opposite issue, my overactive cans have caused their fair share of pain and problems. Well, now my pain is gain for other babies. I am officially a milk donor.
I get enough to eat. As evidenced by my leg, wrist, and neck rolls.
I have to say, I had no idea milk donation was even a thing until a few months ago. But oh the things you learn! There are apparently human milk banks across the country whose goal is to provide safe, pasteurized milk to babies who need it because of medical conditions such as formula intolerance or feeding issues related to prematurity. Coincidentally, there just so happens to be one right here in Denver not two miles from where I work. Score.
People had been telling me about it for a while, but ever the procrastinator, I waited until the freezer was so full that whenever you opened it you risked some kind of frozen lactose landslide (more on that later). When I finally realized that I had well over 200 ounces crammed in there, I figured it was about time that I made the call to the bank.
As it turns out, they couldn’t have been nicer people. I was treated like some kind of royal guest — constantly with an escort, showered with gifts of milk collection bags and pump sanitation gear, told stories of how my milk would save lives. They run their operation much like a blood bank, so there’s a blood test required and you have to fill out a questionnaire with things on it like, “Have you been to west Africa?” and “Have you received money, drugs, or other payment for sex?” There are also a few additional breastfeeding specific questions about medications, herbal supplements, alcohol, and caffeine. And of course, it has to be ok’d by E’s doctor. As it turns out, I’m pretty squeaky clean and both Elliott and I are ideal candidates for milk donation. So they gave me a donor number.
The next step was to drop off my milk. First, I had to make sure all of my little frozen packets were labeled with month, day, year, and donor number. This required pulling them out of the freezer, something I decided to do after the baby was asleep one night since it’s the only time I had to do it. Of course, like a bad game of Jenga, I pulled one packet out and they all started to slide. Dozens of rock solid frozen packets started slamming into the hardwood floor, baby sleeping just on the other side of the wall, and there was nothing I could do about it except desperately try to slam the door shut again. Peter came flying up the stairs from the basement and started “yelling” in an angry whisper, “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING??” Of course I fire back in my best Jack Bauer loud-whisper-for-dramatic-effect, “I’M TRYING TO GET THIS MILK OUT OF THE FREEZER. WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE I’M DOING. STOP YELLING AT ME.” Then like a nice husband, he grabbed a towel and crouched under the freezer door to catch anything that fell out, which of course it didn’t because he was there.
All my little frozen milk packets ready for delivery.
The next morning I took 84 ounces of milk in frozen packets to the milk bank. A smiling woman met me at my car with a reusable grocery bag and whisked away all of my hard pumped work. Part of me was a little bit sad, strangely enough. But a larger part of me couldn’t be happier.
So to all those overproducing gals out there, keep on expressing yourself (pffffffffffffhahahaha). Then find a milk bank and donate. You, other babies and moms — and your freezer — will be glad you did.