Milk, milk, lemonade

     “Why don't you show me how to freeze your milk, so I can help you with it?” My sweet husband's considerate question made my blood run as cold as the milk in question. Trying to buy myself a few seconds, I cleared my throat. “You want to learn to freeze the milk?” I repeated the question, trying to sound normal but hoping that I had misheard. Cheerfully he replied, “yeah, that way on the nights when you are running around trying to get Archer to fall asleep and getting your other stuff done you won't have to stop what you're doing to freeze your milk.” It sounded rational. Sounded reasonable. Made sense. But the sound of the completely logical words falling out of my mouth made me cringe. “O... Okay.”

     For the most part, I don't consider myself an overly controlling person. I'm demanding of myself, but overall I'm pretty flexible with others. I like things to be done my way, but usually I can adapt pretty well. I believed this idea about myself wholeheartedly, that is until the day I watched my husband try to freeze my breast milk.

     Over the past 7 months, I have perfected a system of freezing 4 to 6 bags of breast milk every evening that I am pretty happy with. I have my own little rituals for how I do everything from how I fill each storage bag and get all of the air bubbles out, to where and how I lay them so that they freeze nice and flat. It isn't by any means the only way, but it's my way and how I like it to be done. I'll admit it, I'm sort of weirdly territorial and protective of my milk. Strange but true.

     I have a system for how I fill each bag. It's not just an immature effort to have things my way, but because I've spilled them before. It's a dark day when it happens, but every so often the top of a bag goes rogue while I'm trying to get a particularly rebellious air bubble out and I end up with an ounce of liquid gold dripping down my kitchen cabinets. When I spill milk, I have to stop and take a deep breath. “I'm not gonna cry, I'm not gonna cry,” I chant quietly as if in prayer, reminding myself that it's not as bad as it feels. I have a system in place for everything having to do with my milk collection and storage. I am picky about the order in which each bag is organized in one of two cases that sit in our freezer. I have a system for which of the two cases each bag goes into. These are not systems that I made on a whim just because I felt like it. They are based on the date on which the milk was produced and making sure that it gets used in the correct order.

     When I get ready to freeze my milk, I grab my cute little cooler that accompanies me to work each and every day and 5 individual storage bags. I gingerly write on each, the date and the number of ounces of milk that each bag will eventually contain, careful to be as neat as possible.  I place the neck of the bottle inside the opening of the bag and with the gusto of a flair bartender in Vegas, I turn the bottle and bag upside down and empty the bottle completely. Then I sit the bag down on the counter and with a graceful swoop push the air bubbles out while locking both long seals across the top of the bag. I repeat this four more times, and then lay each bag on top of my case, a thin plastic divider between each so that they can be easily separated after they are frozen for storage inside of the case. Sounds simple enough and to be honest, at this point I'm a pro at it. I then pack up my pumping supplies so they will be ready for the next day. All I have to do in the morning is grab my cold pack and go.

     Another person's system wouldn't be wrong necessarily, but it would be different and therefore well, yeah, wrong. Wrong is actually exactly what it would be. But I didn't want to discourage Jim. It is wonderful that he wants to be so helpful and I know that to retain my sanity, I have to let people help. I have to be able to let go of the control that I am clinging to tightly with both hands and accept that their system might be okay too.

     Overall my husband is an enormous help to me. Since having Archer and returning to work full time, he has taken over most of the household tasks. I have only cooked a handful of meals since giving birth and have not done one single load of laundry. And God love him, he never complains. He is always ready to take on any additional task to lighten my load and give me more time with Archer. For the most part, I am happy to let him help. I like to focus on being a mommy as much as humanly possible, so anything that he offers to take on, I am generally happy to hand over. But this is my milk and it is different than laundry. My body goes to great lengths to create a unique blend of perfectly balanced vitamins, proteins, amino acids, minerals and enzymes formulated to respond to my babies exact needs. Not something that I care to see spoiled or laying helplessly across my kitchen counter. Jim knows this and has great respect for what I go through to provide milk for Archer while I'm at work. He also knows me well enough to know that a hot button with me is when he comes into a situation that I have been working on for any length of time and tries to correct or improve upon my system. Even if his ideas are good, it isn't the time or the place. So he knew me well enough to say, “You tell me exactly how you like them done and I'll do that. I promise.” His words offered me some small comfort, so I nodded my head in agreement.

     That night after dinner we went into the kitchen together, Archer on my hip and for the first time ever I directed and supervised the freezing of my milk. All he had done was remove the tiny bottles from the cooler and already I was in a panic. “Okay,” I said, “first you need to get the bags out of the drawer and fill them out with the date and number of ounces.”

     Immediately, I heard, “oops.” “What?” I asked, my heart sinking. “I put the ounces on the date line. Does that matter?” he asked.  And no, it didn't matter. It really didn't. But I felt my body involuntarily begin to sweat regardless. I mentally tried to talk myself into thinking rationally. “It's no big deal,” I reminded myself. “That won't make any difference.” “That won't matter” I said through clinched teeth.

     Then began the sacred dance of filling the bags. My husband, who is generally very smooth and coordinated, all of the sudden looked like Archer when he was just learning to use his arms. It seemed like he lacked adequate control of his limbs. I glanced at Archer and he have me a side glance like, “are you seeing this?” Yeah kid, I'm seeing it. Every time he flipped a bottle over I felt my butt hole pucker up like it had just eaten a lemon wedge.

     He then began attempting to seal each bag without trapping any air bubbles inside. I could tell that he was really trying, but like anyone who is trying too hard and being watched too closely, his movements appeared unnatural and wonky. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the bags. He would seal one, and then look at me for my approval. “There are still bubbles in there” I would say, trying to sound supportive rather than terrified at the prospect of opening the bag again. Unsteadily, he would try again. I knew it was me. I was making him nervous by watching so closely but I just couldn't look away. I felt like my eyes could hold the milk in the bag if gravity let go. I was willing the air bubbles out of the bag with my eyes. " For the love of God, please get that air bubble out of there," I prayed silently.  And after what felt like hours but was actually only minutes, the air bubbles were finally gone and my milk was safely tucked into each sealed bag.

     Finally, they were ready to be placed in their allotted positions in our freezer. The whole process was unfamiliar to Jim and resulted in him again appearing alarmingly uncoordinated. Together, Archer and I watched intently, a look of uncertainty in both of our eyes as he balanced the stack of wobbling liquid and carried it over to the freezer. Following my direction exactly, he set each little bag in it's place and with a sigh of relief shut the freezer door.

     I laughed nervously and thanked him profusely for wanting to learn and be involved in the whole process. I let him know how much I appreciated all that he does for our little family and together we both agreed that the lesson had been exceedingly stressful for all three of us and agreed that moving forward he would only freeze the milk if it was an absolute emergency.

     Sometimes, needing control can be a bad thing. It robs you of the opportunity to accept help when you need it most.  But other times, like when you have manufactured a product within your own body that cannot be duplicated by all of the science and technology on Earth and need to store it safety, it can be exactly what you need to feel like you have some grasp on the often crazy and uncertain world around you.