You overproduce? What a nice problem to have.

My life’s work. That and my actual kid.

Breastfeeding should be easy. It’s what your body was made to do, right? The natural way. Well, nature is really messed up sometimes, y’all.

If you had asked me before baby if I thought I would be the breast milk overproducer of the family, I would have laughed in your face. These A and a half cups? No way. Try my mom or sister’s Ds.

But guess what? Size apparently doesn’t matter. I can produce enough breast milk to feed all the babies in Denver. It’s like a superpower. But with great power comes great responsibility, and pain, it turns out.

At the hospital I was super paranoid about making sure E latched correctly. I would buzz the nurses six times a day to come and check. “He’s on right… right?” They assured me his latch was perfect. I was feeling pretty good about myself and my baby. We’re doing this! I’m making food and you’re eating it! Nice.

But then my milk came in. And it wouldn’t stop. By day five I looked like I had undergone some kind of breast augmentation surgery. They were triple Ds – huge, shiny, and hot (temperature, not looks, I assure you). When I would lay down it felt like I was being crushed by overheated boulders. I slept maybe three hours over the next two days.

Even worse was they were so full E was having trouble latching. All that food and I thought he was going to starve. Irony at its finest. So, I called in reinforcements.

Lactation consultants are angels sent from boob heaven. Yes, she cost almost $200 for an hour visit, but I would have paid three times that. She came in full of cheer and knowledge. She weighed E pre and post feeding. Despite my fears, he gained 3 ounces after he nursed. He wasn’t starving after all. Momma on the other hand was in dire straights. “Pump,” the lactation consultant said, “Pump until you get the milk out.” So I did. Here’s how my next week and a half went. The following period of time was all done topless, regardless of who was in the room:

• Feed E until satisfied, about 15 minutes.
• Hand baby to Peter or mom.
• Pump at least 10 minutes on both sides, massaging breasts until bruises form.* (Ok, she told me not to do that bruising part. Oops. I was desperate, you guys.)
• Ice boobs for 5 minutes each.
• Try to sleep. Try to sleep. Try to sleep. I can’t sleep. Oh, god, I can’t sleep. Am I going to die? I can’t sleep. Start singing songs from Pitch Perfect in an attempt to soothe myself. I can’t sleep.
• Repeat every 2 hours.

*My hands got so sore, I called in the big guns. Yes, Peter massaged my boobs. Sometimes with my mom in the same room. Christ, y’all, motherhood is embarrassing.

If you’re a numbers sort of a person, that left anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half to try and sleep after each feeding. Considering my HIGH levels of anxiety and horrible ability to day sleep, let’s just say I was looking and feeling pretty rough at this point.

But the result? A freezer full of breast milk and a 10 pound baby after two weeks of life. That’s right – E gained his birth weight and then some. A whole extra pound of some. I felt accomplished. I had made a giant baby.

I’m 13 and a half pounds at 6 weeks? No friggin’ way, mom.

Here’s the rub. Every time I tell this story, this is what I hear: “You overproduce? What a nice problem to have.” Ok, yes, I have a strong and healthy baby. But when you have to watch him choke and sputter, latch and relatch over and over (ouch, people), and see him get sprayed in the face because your boobs are like sucking on the end of a fire hose, it’s hard for me to think this is a nice problem to have. Not to mention the gas, excessive spit up, overabundance of dirty diapers, and colic-like symptoms due to the above. Plus, every time he starts sleeping in longer stretches the giant boobs of pain happen all over again (although not as crazy as the first time).

However, just like everything else I’ve experienced so far with motherhood, it does get better. My giant baby (up to at least 13.5 pounds now) already sleeps in 4 and 5 hour chunks at night likely thanks to my boobs and his weight. He always feels satisfied, and I never have to worry about him going hungry. I overproduce, and I’ve come to learn that it can in fact be a nice problem to have.