Glamour Pants

After I wrote that title I was kind of wishing that was my nickname... Glamour Pants.  It has a really classy ring to it, no?

Anywho, I was wrapped up in one of the activities I enjoy most in the world (insert dripping sarcasm) pumping(!!) while at work, no less, when the milking production started heading south at the barn. 

First of all I'm just going to come out and say it, I hate pumping (bring it La Leche Leaguers).
 I'm not speaking for anyone else here and I completely understand the benefits of breast milk for kiddos but I just hate being hooked up to that machine.  I always imagine its like the Dementors from Harry Potter trying to suck out my soul. 

(^^^The mess I created on my pants, as it were.  Notice the shoes kicked off in the background - why do I find it almost physically impossible to pump with my shoes on?  Is there some sort of milk duct/naked foot connection?  Note to self - potential research paper)

Being a working (albeit part-timer) mom type I have a relationship, let's call it, with my pump.  She's my gal, I can always count on her.  She's an old work horse logging in the hours with me to provide sustenance for my babes for approximately 10-12 months post-partum until my kids finally get so bored of breastfeeding that they wean themselves.  I have pumped in my office (thank you God I have an office to myself to do this 3 times a day while at work), bathroom stalls (both clean-ish and "please don't let any pump parts or boob parts touch anything in this vicinity" gross), my car, the Lactation Station at the Minnesota State Fair, at weddings while listening to the speeches tucked around a corner hoping the wrrr--wrrrr--wrrr--wrrrr sound couldn't be heard, and in front of countless nurses, doctors, and families of other preemies in the NICU when Dave was born.  In fact, because Dave was only a 32-weeker when he decided he couldn't hold his excitement for his debut into the world any longer I had to pump every three hours for the first eight weeks of his life since he had no idea that sucking, swallowing, AND breathing all at the same time are required for babies to pass the eating test and be released from the hospital.  So I think it's safe to say I consider myself to be pretty much an expert when it comes to the pump.

Imagine my surprise then yesterday when I'm sitting there just impatiently waiting to get through this pump so I can go see my patients when I start to feel warmth along my thigh.  I look down and see my linen pants all wet with dripping milk coming out of the right boob cup.  Crap - super annoying!  Not only do I have wet pants which are questionable in any setting, but in a medical setting they can really draw some inquistive glances about what exactly is on your pants (urine from someone else's body being the usual suspect) but the more aggrevating thing is that I've lost precious drops of milk.  When I'm pumping 16 minutes for a measly 3.5 ounces you better believe every bless-ed drop counts.  Whoever said "don't cry over spilled milk" was clearly not a pumping mother, because it makes my stomach drop, my heart ache, and my nipples crack just to think of wasted milk.

Let me just say that while I abhor pumping, I (pretty much) like breastfeeding.  I wouldn't say I love it, but I get it.  I know how good it is nutritionally, it burns calories for me and justifies my inhaling dessert and liquor, and it's FREE (minus the cost of pump, milk bags, nursing cover, nursing bras, and nursing pads for those pesky leaky boobs).  It also means that I have an almost ironclad excuse to occasionally hide with George while someone else takes care of the other three even if he's finished eating and I'm just sitting there surfing the web on my phone while he's contentedly sleeping. 

The parts I do absolutely love are the gentle baby face nuzzles when he's ready to eat, when his head drops back with milk dripping out of his comatose mouth when he's satiated, the sweet milky baby breath, and the porn-star sized boobs about every three hours.