dairy queen, 29 weeks, 3 days

Lately, I’ve been thinking about boobs. Specifically mine. Specifically my impending role as full-time-dairy-cow-nurse-maid nursing mama. Apparently, my body is already marshalling the energy for this riveting new gig – last week I noticed that my chest is currently running at least 86 degrees warmer than the rest of my body. Because, you know, PUMPING BLOOD TO VITAL AND NO LONGER B CUP BOOBS. For the baby.

According to wise ole Alphamom, I should also now be noticing other exciting-knocker-related-changes-and-party-tricks – but not having known what colostrum was before I Google image searched it,[1] I’m pretty content to live in a world of denial – no need to contemplate that I could, at any moment, begin leaking through a business suit. We can save that frightening possibility until after I give birth and have returned to work, dazed and confused, and possibly probably covered in spit up. Pleaseandthankyou.

In the meantime, my newly sweltering bosom prompted me to TAKE DRASTIC ACTION: I signed up for a lactation class. “Breastfeeding Essentials: Part I[2]” promises to prepare me for “successful nursing” using “videos,” “photographic books,” and “props” <I’ll wait here while you snicker childishly at the double entendres, intended and otherwise. No, really, I’ll wait.> In the face of my offer – wanna come look at boobs with me for a couple hours on December 4? – C remained steadfastly mature and professional. Please label this upcoming class under strangest date we’ve ever been on.

In other mammary related news, a few dear friends gave me the heads up that my insurance company might cover the cost of a breast pump. Seeing as I’ll be returning to work a mere 10 weeks after I push a giant baby out of myself and so as to avoid the aforementioned business-suit-leakage, I have big pumpin’ plans. For efficiency and because, you know, MORE SEXY!, I plan to go for the double: you can't unsee this[3].

Trying to be a good sport because I made him, C volunteered to call our insurance company to inquire about coverage. Apparently they will cover the cost – in fact, the Affordable Care Act now all but requires it[4] – but they ask that we reach out to various medical supply vendors with the make and model that we want. Devoted husband that he is, C made the first call:

C: Hi. <Literally no transition or introduction whatsoever> Do you sell breast pumps?

Medical supply vendor: excuse me?

C: <Without missing a beat and apparently totally unable to read social cues> Do you sell breast pumps?

Medical supply vendor: <to coworker in the background> what a creep

*Click*

He swears this happened, word for word. I swear that he is either (a) lying in an attempt to get me to deal with this or (b) actually on the spectrum and totally unable to read social cues. I’m also not ruling out a combination of (a) and (b) because, c’mon! Ahem, readers, what do you think?

In the meantime, apparently the NYTimes Health section is cycling right along with me – they recently posted this timely article bringing to light the challenges women face in obtaining coverage not just for pumps but for lactation services. I guess I better plan on taking Breastfeeding Essentials: Parts II-XI before December 20.  

And that, dear blog-o-sphere, is this week’s installment in hooter related news/my feeble attempt to incorporate many different synonyms for “breast” into one post.

Also, this: how on earth am I twenty-nine weeks pregnant? GAH!

Most awkward cropped shot ever. Also, first casually-dressed-pregnant-Sarah-while-apple-picking photo.  Also, don't tell C that shortly before this photo was taken, I climbed a tree - there were really good looking apples up there.

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[1] Probably don’t do that. Not because it’s particularly racy, more just confusing: as in, why so many baby cows? Why?

[2] <Panic> there are multiple parts?!

[3] Is that white wine? Also, this. And this. The latter obviously a stock photo from the 1980s and the former uh, I don’t know, from another planet and era entirely. You’re welcome.

[4] Obama, you’re the breast! <couldn’t resist> <boob humor> <sorry>.