Pumpin Drunk

Ok I was a little "happy" while I wrote this one. So happy I forgot to post it. Well, better late than never - right?

Yea, I said it. I'm pumping drunk. Cool your jets people, I'm not going to feed it to my kid. Since I haven't had a serious bender...well....since the night I got pregnant, I am a pretty cheap date. So I went to happy hour with a few co-workers. Before the first glass of wine I texted husband to see if he could pick up child at daycare. Check. After the first glass of wine I texted husband to see if he could feed her a bottle (it went something like "I am going to be hammered. Please feed her a bottle."). Then he texted to ask me if I wanted sushi.

Good husband.

Consumed more wine, walked home (which must have been humorous to watch - drunk lady stumbling home with a breast pump and a laptop). I get home and despite the fact that my kid now finds it amusing to bite me with those two little teeth of death, I continue to do some breastfeeding. I'm no martyr, nor am I a glutton for punishment. It's mostly because I need to GET. IT. OUT. On this fair evening I unceremoniously retired the pump at work so it's home with me. I decide I will pump and dump at home. So while husband is putting child to bed in the other room I am drunk, hooked up to a pump and posting to my blog. Sad, sad life I lead.

Pumping drunk has its risks, namely getting stuff all over the place. First I realize too late that the containers are dangerously full...try to rectify, spills on my leg. Then I have no where to put it. Through one squinty eye I see the to-go coffee cup that I just pulled out of work bag. Dump containers and replace the lid on the to-go cup. Pump some more, stop. Unplug. Accidentally spill half of the container on leg. Curse. Grab to-go cup, dump remainder. Fail to realize the lid is on and closed. Curse again. Spill.

Totally disoriented. I will be SO FRICKIN HAPPY when I never have to do this again.

Screw the Cow, I'll just buy the Milk...

My mother used to tell me when I was a kid that no one buys the cow when they can get the milk for free. While it's a nice sentiment (and certainly makes guilty Catholics everywhere feel good about that whole abstinence business) my husband disproved that one when he married me.

I would now like to modify that statement. "I would rather buy the milk as long as I don't have to be the cow." Let me explain....

I recently returned to work and I now have a serious love hate relationship with a breast pump. For a total of 40 minutes a day I am exposed and hooked up to what amounts to a fancy vacuum. I have purchased a pumping bra that my husband believes is some sort of S&M paraphernalia. It's a messy business..blockading the office door, pulling the blinds, whipping out the girls, strapping yourself in, WOOSH WOOSH WOOSH. I just know that everyone can hear this wooshing from 6 offices away.

All the while reading articles like this and this. Yet I continue to put my little containers in the office fridge and redress myself twice a day. Here's why, and my work husband can mock all he wants with comments about about organic food and ergo strollers... I can't be sure that this whole breast milk thing isn't important, so I'll do it just in case.

So as I sit there thinking how undignified it is to be hooked up to a Hoover, I read something like this and I think about how bad I would feel if someday my poor kid has nasty dermatitis all over her just because my selfish ass didn't want to be Bessie the Milk Cow.

Well, even Bessie has her limits. There are only so many times a day you can get naked in your office and still reasonably conduct business. That said, our little friend gets one bottle of formula a day. It's one out of roughly 6-7 feedings. So by my calculations I'm only a good mother 83-86% of the time. I think I can live with those numbers.