This afternoon, I decided it was time to dust off the old pump. A breast pump is a nursing mom's greatest frenemy. It gives her options - the freedom to be away from the baby for longer than 3 hours, or the ability for Dad to help with the baby's mealtimes. But let's face it. It is probably THE MOST UNGLAMOROUS tool she will ever use. Seriously. It makes me feel like a cow.
When I first started pumping after I had the punk, I felt hideous. I would hide out in my room so that not even my man could see me. If I could have smashed all the mirrors in the house and gouged out my eyes, I would have done so. I didn't even want my own eyes to witness the ugliness. I cried from shame the first time my man walked in and saw me pumping. My body had been permanently changed with pregnancy and childbirth, and now there I was, hooked up to a sucking machine like an animal.
Fortunately, I have softened on this issue. The process is not any prettier than it used to be, but whatyagunnado? However, I still prefer to pump in private. I mean, really. No one else needs to see me withdraw fluids from my body, no matter how nutritious and delicious they are. So, I closed the door and sat in my rocking chair to prepare for a pumping session.
The minute I began, I heard the punk's footsteps in the hallway, and then the door handle began to turn. I knew I was in for it. He waltzed in and then stopped dead in his tracks. His curious eyes were fixed on the contraption in front of him. His eyes widened and bulged, and shifted from the suction cups in my hands, along the plastic tubes, to the seemingly innocuous bag that was plugged into the wall and making a repeated pumping sound. He was transfixed.
"Calvin?" I asked.
"Calvin, will you please go out and shut the door?"
"Excuse me, I am busy right now. Please go out and shut the door."
No movement. No sign of life.
After several attempts to get his attention, and knowing what a silly and vulnerable position I was in, I just started laughing hysterically. He finally shifted his eyes to meet mine and asked, "What's that sound?" I tried to explain what I was doing. He confirmed, "You are drinking Baby Asher's milk out into a bottle?" Yes, something like that. He finally obeyed my request to exit the room, but only for a moment. He repeatedly came close to closing the door, but then would change his mind and came back in for another look.
Laughing, I called to my man and asked him to save me. "Dude, I'd like some privacy please?" Carrying the baby, he ushered the punk out the door. As they left, the punk asked him, "Mom drinking Baby Asher's milk out?"
Yes, ours is a fascinating and confusing existence.