Five ways I trick my boobs into producing more milk

Now, this is blatant blog filler because I’m away on my holidays** and need to get back to slightly-more-hungover-than-usual babywrangling in a slightly-nicer-than-usual location.

That said, I am rubbish at expressing milk into any receptacle other than my son. I have a hand pump. I have an electric pump. I have, er, hands. During a good hour’s boobery (even after massaging them and doing other things that make me feel a bit like my own molester) I can squeeze out a teenth of a millilitre of milk using these methods; it’s pathetic. And yet my son, exclusively breastfed, is fat and bouncing.

Occasionally, though, I can trick my breasts into squirting out the requisite amount to allow me to go to the cinema or dentist now and again. This is how I do it, but if you have any tips, my boobs, and maybe other people’s boobs, would really appreciate it if you shared them in the comments…


1. I browse photos of my son until I cry

Admittedly I do this all the time, and that’s why my phone keeps going STOP THIS THERE IS NO MORE ROOM STOP IT NOW at me. The thing is, if I do it until I cry, eventually my boobs cry, too, and I can capture their tears in a Tommy Tippee cup so I can go and watch Jurassic World and have a cheeky Nando’s once every couple of months. Isn’t nature majestic.

2. I watch this clip of Miracle on 34th Street 

The strangely soft-focus 1990s remake is my unashamed favourite Christmas movie. Here, a deaf little girl goes to see Father Christmas and her mum’s all “oh, you don’t need to talk to her, it’s just enough that she can see you”  and then Kris Kringle asks her what she wants for Christmas in perfect sign language, and oh god. I and my boobs are in floods.

3. I hug my husband

I hug him good and hard until the oxytocin starts flowing, and then I abandon him for the breast pump, like the heartless cow I am.


A video posted by Robyn Wilder Heritage (@orbyn) on

4. I watch this video of my husband and son having a raspberry conversation

I watch it over and over while massaging my boobs which, now I think about it, is super creepy.

5. I listen to this song Dumbo’s mum sings to him when she’s taken away, because apparently I bloody hate myself.

*Inconsolable sobbing, forever*

** Literally an Airbnb in the same county, only closer to the beach.

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