Horror of Horrors

Last night was the first attempt at the night wean. What is a night wean you ask? Well a night wean is when you stop feeding your baby with your boob at night. Surprisingly, it went extremely well, meaning tonight will probably be hell. But I care not, you know why? Because I was running today and had to place my building access card in my jog bra. When my run was completed, I searched for the card. As I stood there groping my breasts, there was nothing. Did it fall out? Did I lose it? Wasn’t it just there? But then, a slight tinge. Hand down my shirt and into my bra, there it lay, my 1 1/2 inch by 3 inch card completely hidden under my right tit. So when Maggie is difficult tonight, I will go to my special place - a place that does not involve boob girth capable of playing hide and seek with a god damn building security badge. 38 days!

Defiance

At this moment, I should be in my office’s lactation room listening to the gasping wheeze of my Avent Isis Duo collecting breast milk for my second born. But I don’t want to. This decision will almost certainly lead to the manual pumping of an overly full right bosom at approximately 8:30 p.m. and the lamenting of said decision. Do you know today marks fifty days. Fifty days from today, I will be free. My time served. I have been wondering of late when the day approaches, what emotions will bubble. Sadness for the fact this is it, no more babies? Accomplishment for the fact I did this year long sentence twice for both of my kids? Happiness that Maggie is a year old and we made it without killing her, Owen or each other? Joy that I can finally drink vodka, whiskey and tequila? Not really sure (well other than the fact there will be joy in the form of a Manhattan), but I am stumbling to finish this nursing marathon. I want it over, I want it done, and I want a non-pornographic bosom. I cannot wait for March 5, 2010 to arrive. Its been a long haul.

Reason #257

I am suffering from a cold, and it is a total lingerer. Although starting to feel symptoms last Monday, nothing truly manifested itself until Wednesday evening. Now a week later from that Wednesday evening it feels as if my head is surrounded in a green snot haze. For the first three days, I pretty much wrote it off to allergies, because I like to do that. I am not one to ride the sickness pity party parade. Its allergies, dude. But nope, this is not allergies, this is a cold. And like any crazy person with denial about illness, I ran yesterday, with a chest cold. In all honesty, I can say it was okay, I felt better. But then this morning, I woke up. The worst part about all of this is that because I am breastfeeding there is nothing to take. I can’t Nyquil into hazy facial recognitions and purple ponies, nor can I Dayquil in order to make my officemates not look at me with abject fear. I take Halls Menthol Cherry Drops and this Vick’s Vapor Rub nasal shot that looks like I am doing cocaine. And this is reason #257 I will be happy to stop nursing in March 2010. Go Immune System!

Eff You Great Britain

I just finished ordering possible outfit number three for a wedding I am attending in November.

Outfit No. 1 was from J.Crew and tragically incapable of holding my ginormous nursing boobs. I actually ordered the dress a size up in an attempt to house said monstrosities. Unfortunately the size up meant that my chest area was still sausaged while the bottom of the dress could smuggle a family of five across the Mexican border. It was at the point I realized that I either had to do a wrap or a two piece. No dress without tons of alterations would do, and since I am not nursing forever (although it seems like it at times), there is no way Cheapskate McCall would spend money on something so unnecessary.

Outfit No. 2 is a simple black wrap dress with 3/4 sleeves that I got at Macy’s for the absolute low, low price of $64.00 bux. This is a great dress, and perfectly acceptable for the wedding, even though it cries boring. But in a fix, it will do. And every girl should have a black wrap in her wardrobe.

Today I got an e-mail from Boden declaring “new winter outfits.” And on perusal, I instantaneously feel in love with a 50s styled beaded cardigan and sateen skirt. A two piece wedding appropriate outfit that when paired with my black suede Mary Janes would make a girl skip. In my head, Cheapskate McCall was all “you have a dress, it fits, why bother?” But I was all shut up, I am acting on impulse, and I still get 10% off and free shipping, so quite down you ole bat. (Again, isn’t it is amazing I am let among the people?).

However, fine folks, do you know that Boden has UK sizing. I looked at the UK Sizing Charts to discover that even though I have lost forty-five pounds since having Maggie, and am finally in my old size (even though I still have 15 pounds to go), I still had to order a size up because it said “if you are a larger size then please order up for the UK equivalent.” Uh-huh. Talk about a fashion bitch slap. I will not be moving to London, EVER!

I never thought that one of the most important relationships in my life would be with the following:

What is that you ask? That is my breast pump. Every working day, five times a week, three times a day for 15 minutes a time, my Avent Isis Duo molests me. In addition to working for the man, I am working for the mammaries. This pump has lasted an entire year with Owen, and god willing, through these last five months with Maggie even though it sometimes delivers an exasperated wheezing that begs to ask “Aren’t you done with this shit yet?” No breast pump, I am not done with this shit. You will know when that time has come because I will be coming to you in a drunken vodka haze with a sledgehammer. You can imagine that this is a whole bunch of alone time with my exposed boobies. I usually pass the time with my Iphone, Nintendo, a book or just staring at how far that god damn machine can stretch my nipples. I am talking inches people. There are times, I forget to lock the door of our lactation room while pumping. That is what they call it here - not the Milk Mecca or the Conference Room Boob - but “Lactation Room.” I know that public education being as it is might make someone say “Lactation?” What is that? I should investigate. And sometimes with unlocked door, you do get a curious visitor. Once very heavy set woman in her fifties entered, someone obviously not lactating or in need of a lactation room, but medical science being as it is and the average age of first time San Francisco mothers hovering around 45, maybe she was. But my answer was quickly found in her reddened face at the sight of me, my boobs and awesome hum of the Isis Duo. I see this woman sometimes around the office, and want to shout “You saw my boobies!!! You say my boobies!!”, but refrain. I think she was scared straight. A few weeks ago, our wellness room was being used. That is what we call the nap room. Yes, there are adults who take naps at work. Who knew! Anyway, there was a knock on the door, and I was asked if a woman who was not feeling well came in to rest on the couch. Hmmm, let me think, some sick woman wants to rest her head while I sit her with my boobs out pumping breast milk to a pump that sounds like it is saying “you whore” “you whore” “you whore”. Ah, nope. Does she? I don’t think the term awkward quite defines how I felt as she lay on the couch with closed eyes while I played Bedazzled 2 on my Iphone. But let me say I am happy for wine and beer. I really am.

What a Boob

The thing about nursing and having a well endowed rack is that you can’t really find the lift and support your fat puppies need. In fact, it is said by the La Leche League of Loudish Preachy Crazy Hippies that one should not wear underwire because it may interfere with breastfeeding leading to plugged ducts, mastitis, etc. I had mastitis after Owen, which pretty much involved having a fever of 105 degrees and thinking I could possibly die at any moment, so I heeded those words. But underwire to the big breasted gal, is like black clothing to the teenage goth. Necessary! So after a few months of a mono boobish life, I succumbed and purchased an underwire nursing bra. Boobs fixed and I had no near death experiences. Unfortunately, those bras were in size 38G and I am now a 38DDD (triple D-lightful) so wearing them now makes my boobs look pretty heinous in the sense of cockeyed nipples and belly grazing lows. I suffered my mirrored reflection because nursing bras are fucking expensive. However, I could no longer stand being made fun of behind my back (cross eyed nippled lady and she of the one boob), and purchased a Playtex bra on Amazon for 15 bux. Holy cow, let me say that I love Playtex. Sure, they make the ugliest bras known to man, but my boobs and Playtex are like moustaches and the 1970s, a match made in heaven. I have lift and separation people, LIFT AND SEPARATION. My boobs are for the first time in 17 weeks above sea level, and they look freaking awesome. No lie, I have gazed upon them at least twenty-five times today, each time saying in my head “Oh my god, they are still huge, but holy crap, I think they look good. Like really good.” So needless to say, I purchased some more Playtex underwire nursing gems and am considering stripping for money. But only that bra and panty type stripping, because I don’t want to be getting off the pole and tripping over my boobs. Because I think that could actually happen.

Tit for Tat

Today while pumping in our lactation room surrounded by the other pumping bags, all of which were black, it occurred to me - why hide our breast milk pumping ways. I think if I were to design a breast milk bag it would be flesh colored with big boobies on it, maybe a tag that says “Yes, I do in fact, got milk.” I would carry it proudly as people would stare at me and say “Wow, that girls boobies are ginormous for a reason.” or “What a freaking hippie, why do that to your ta-tas?” or “Look at that, the Mother Teresa of nipples.” Why do I have to go camouflage with a bunch of other big black bag having gals about town. At least my bag has an actual purpose to it, rather than an unnecessary object that is continually slamming into my right thigh on MUNI. Do you really need to take your entire apartment with you to work? Do you?