The other day I discovered the wonderfully cheeky League of Maternal Justice, committed “to expose the injustices perpetrated against mothers everywhere and to exact vengeance through aggressive finger-wagging and online shaming”.

Superhero Lactavista single handedly defends breast feeders with her super action nursing bra and double power breast pump, but what made me smile was the way she is shown clutching an expressing bottle and breastshield, like a weapon of mass milksuction. My husband always said they looked like science fiction rayguns. 

Enough milk has passed under the bridge, so to speak, that I can look back on the three dedicated months I spent expressing and smile about it. It wasn’t always so easy.

From the day I was first introduced to a breastpump, I became a woman (or possibly a cow) on a mission, pumping every three hours around the clock. A sample of my daily routine: pump, sleep, pump, eat, pump, visit hospital, pump, wash expressing gear – well you get the picture. The only exciting thing I did during those three months was to pump, rush to attend pop concert, queue to meet pop star, hug pop star (woo hoo!), rush home, pump again. Other than that it was pretty darn dull.

Our cat took an immediate dislike to the vibrating machine of similar size to him and which seemed to be a rival for my attention. He would often glare at it, purring extra loudly so that I would hear him above the whirring of the pump.

Before I started taking Domperidone (known affectionately in our household as Dom Pérignon) my milk supply was woeful, and it never really took off. Where others squirted, I merely dribbled. I envied the mothers whose freezers overflowed, as I carefully syringed out every last drop and took photographs the first time I filled a container larger than a test tube.

Cry over spilt milk? You bet I did.

I spent lot of time surfing the web while expressing in the middle of the night. I found a lovely story about another woman’s experience, called Help! My Breastpump is on Fire

When I finally parted company with my hired pump, I almost felt a tiny pang of sadness – but only for a millisecond. If I ever have to set my alarm to wake me at 3 a.m. again, I hope it will be for something a lot more exciting.