One time? I was looking at porn on the internet. FOR A FRIEND! Shut your dirty whore mouth! It was FOR A FRIEND. Okay, so I was looking at porn on the internet - um - for a friend and I stumbled on these two Asian chicks squirting each other with boob milk. Not saying it's an Asian thing or anything, these chicks just happened to be Asian. So they're spraying each other and giggling and making out, yeah, it was really weird. This was before I was ever pregnant and the amount of boob milk they were hosing each other down with blew my mind.
It was a lotta milk, yo.
I'm not really sure why I'm telling you about the milky Asian chicks other than now that I'm thundering into my third month of breastfeeding I've pretty much experienced all manner of milky shenanigans myself. God, I love that word: shenanigans. Say it. SAY IT! See? You like it too, don't you?
So I'm going to a lot of doctors. Gotta make sure I'm in top notch condition because my health insurance runs out in ten days. My insurance runs out in ten days! Oh my God, you guys, I quit my job! Deep breath, deep breath, deep breath...
The other day I had an appointment to get my root canal finished. Something about putting in a post and capping it off or whatever. I don't care what they do so long as they crank the nitrous. Serge came home from work early to watch the kids and I bolted for the dentist. In my hurry I forgot that I was breastfeeding. Not breastfeeding right then at that second, but, you know, breastfeeding in general. Meaning my son's only source of food was walking out of the door for what could be several hours.
I think it was Kate Hudson or some other generic blonde actress that said Pregnancy Brain is like being high. I'm here to tell you that Postpartum BreastFeeding Brain is worse. Serge recently asked if I'm suffering from early onset Alzheimer's because I can never remember the words for anything. Conversations between us go something like this:
ME: Have you seen... that thing?
SERGE: What thing?
ME: You know! THE THING!
SERGE: Oh! THAT thing.
ME: Yes! You know what I'm talking about?
SERGE: No, I have no idea what you're talking about.
ME: YOU KNOW! THE THING! THAT HAS THE STUFF ON IT! THE THING!
So I run out the door for the dentist without pumping milk for Henry. I call Serge and tell him that if Henry starts The Hungry Cry, just call me and I'll come home. Fine. Okay. Problem solved. Except not really.
I hang up the cell and feel the telltale tingling that signals my milk is in. Doesn't that make you think of a short order cook in a white chef's hat placing two milkshakes on the counter, dinging a bell for the waitress and saying MILK'S UP!
So yeah, my milkshakes are up.
There are two quarter-sized rings of milk sopping through my bra and t-shirt. DAMMIT. I wait at a traffic light, hoping that'll be the extent but NO. The quarters expand to silver dollars and I feel a pearl of milk slip down a boob onto my stomach.
I can't go to the dentist with big, wet nipples sopping through my t-shirt. I frantically search the console and glove box for napkins. (Do you call it a glove box or a jockey box? Jockey makes me think of some small guy who races horses for a living. So what if the jockey keeps his racing gloves in there? Would it be called a jockey box or a glove box? Or a jockey's glove box?) No napkins. I consider going home and changing but there's no time. I have to keep this appointment, they barely squeezed me in.
I keep searching for something, anything to stop the milk hemhorrage. At the next traffic light I dig into the diaper bag we keep in the car. Please let there be a diaper, please let there be a diaper. Bingo! One left. I try to tear it in half so I can stuff each portion in my bra but holy shit have you ever tried to tear a diaper? They don't tear. Oh, I'm positive it would tear right in half if your kid shit hard enough, that's just the way the universe works. But have two boobs firehosing the inside of your shirt and desperately try to rip those diaper bitches and you will be sorely disappointed.
It was then that I spot Violet's pink bunny rabbit lying on the floor of the car and I had an epiphany. I cram the diaper (luckily it was one of Henry's tiny newborn sizes) as best it would fit into one bra cup and jam one of Violet's bunny's big, cloth ears inside the other bra cup.
There I am cruising, a diaper lumped under my shirt and a rather large pink bunny dangling by his ear, hanging out the bottom of my shirt. But hey! The diaper and ear are absorbing the milk! Success. Now I need to get the wet nipples dry before the dentist gets himself a gander. I slouch in my seat because even though they can't see my bizarre diaper bunny get-up, it's tough to keep a straight face when I happen to catch the eye of fellow motorists.
I roll down the window (I didn't roll it down, I pressed a button and it went down. That sounds stupid, though. But, unless you own a car from 1995 you can't technically say "I roll down the window", right?) and lean my torso out as much as I could, hoping the wind would dry my milky silver dollars that were now the size of small pancakes.
I was a couple minutes late for my appointment because ultimately I had to crank my heat full-blast and press my boobs to the heat vents. I'm sure I looked like a crazy, sex freak engaged in some sort of odd breast/heat vent masturbation but whatever. The shirt was dry by the time I slid into the dentist's chair.
He asked if I'd like the laughing gas. "Crank it up and lay it on me, doc. I could use a laugh."