This One’s About Boobies

You may have noticed that I’m posting an awful lot lately. My husband’s new job requires lots of business trips for training so while he’s been gone I’ve been spending quiet evenings writing on my laptop while Isobel contentedly lines up her toys for some Mysterious Toddler Reason. Plus I haven’t been watching any TV lately. Strangely enough it feels lonely to watch my favorite shows without Anthony there to share them, and I’ve been watching my recorded episodes of Oprah only half-heartedly since he’s not there to groan in boredom. I’ve been making a conscious effort to watch less TV in Isobel’s presence anyway. With my husband gone I’ve been turning to my surrogate husband, The Internet, for adult discourse. Hence the multitude of posts.

(As an aside: I was trying to explain NaBloPoMo to Anthony over the weekend except I got the name wrong and accidentally called it “No Blo Mo or Something” and let me tell you, my husband is 100% in favor Mo Blo. And we’ll leave it at that.)

Before I talk about boobies I’d like to remind everyone that I’m currently hosting a MONKEY GIVEAWAY and you have until Saturday to enter. So far about six of you are going to Heaven because you’ve retweeted my post. Thanks, guys! I’m currently singing “Monkey’s Gone To Heaven” in your honor.

And now, onto the boobies…

I love commenting on other people’s blogs because I think writing is best enjoyed as a conversation, so imagine my frustration when all of my comments lately have been eaten by the internet. No matter where I commented or what I said, none of my masterful, well-thought-out comments (HA!) seemed to post. I have an extensive blog roll that includes all of these blogs plus several other blogs that I nose around in from time to time.

This glitch was especially irritating because Grumbles and Grunts is hosting a giveaway that I particularly want to be a part of. If you’re a parent and you have ladyparts, there is a chance that you have tried your, er, hand at pumping. Everyone told me that breastfeeding would be hard, but nobody told me that pumping would be hard. In case you were wondering, it’s really really hard.

I don’t want to get into Isobel’s birth story yet because frankly, I’m going to need more counseling first. Suffice it to say that things went horribly wrong and I ended up with a catheter bag full of blood and emergency surgery and a C section besides. My body went into shock afterwards, and I was a mess.

I was not making enough milk to sustain Isobel so my lactation consultant recommended regular pumping. No problem, I thought. I’ll just hook up the old love jugs to the machine and fold diapers, browse on my laptop, or check twitter on my phone. I just assumed that the pumps suction-cupped themselves directly to your breasts. At no point did I think you had to hold them in place for the entire thirty minute pumping period with your own goddamn hands.

Really? Are you shitting me, technology? WE CAN PUT A MAN ON THE MOON BUT I HAVE TO HOLD MY BREAST PUMP IN PLACE WITH MY OWN GODDAMN HANDS FOR THE ENTIRE DURATION OF MY MILKING? If women had been the dominant sex in our society you’d better fucking believe this technology would have been discovered by now.

I do plan on having another child and the pumping problem has been something that has haunted me. If this pumping-bra-thing works half as well as it says it does, then I at least have one free hand with which to play Bejeweled. So consider me entered.

The Grumblies requested that those who enter share their most embarrassing pumping stories. Fortunately, I had an extra-long maternity leave thanks to my health complications and I was able to pump in the privacy of my own home. My most embarrassing pumping story happened nearly every night: when Anthony would realize I should be done pumping but still hadn’t emerged from the bedroom he’d come in to find me topless, slumped over dead asleep, one boob attached to the pump while the other inevitably became free from the pump to distribute milk all over my pajama pants and bedding. The unused side of the pump would whir pathetically in time with my snores and he’d have to wake me up to deal with the aftermath. Yay, technology!

Now pray with me to the lactation gods that I win that pump holder, or else I suspect you’ll have to hear more embarrassing details about my boobs in the future.