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].
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!
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| 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. |
