The booby experiment

So this Saturday I decided to head out all day to a friend’s bachelorette party.  It was bliss.  Limo to the Nordik Spa, R&R there, then limo to Fresco’s for dinner. Thought I would be out until 8 or so, given a nice leisurely dinner. 9:30 hit and we had barely placed our food orders yet.

What this meant was that from the time I left the house (12:30) until I got home (10:30) I didn’t breastfeed or pump.  Well, that last part isn’t entirely true – more to come on that later. Call it an experiment to see how ‘normal’ my poorly producing boobies were, since I hadn’t gone any big length of time without at least pumping since the babies arrived.

Here’s what happened.

First, the spa was great.  Soooo great. It was a beautiful sunny day, and the girlfriends were hilarious – it was great to be out acting like an adult again (well, maybe I was.  I’ll let my other girlfriends speak for themselves. I’ll just say this about that. There were penis cupcakes.) Hot baths and saunas, cold waterfalls, green tea by the fireside….ahhhhh!  All was well.

Then, a funny thing happened.  All of a sudden *whoosh*.  I could feel the tingling and throbbing reminding me quite aggressively that I was supposed to be tied to my child or a pump by now. It came, then went, then came again. And it started to get very uncomfortable.

All very much what I expected.

We went from the spa to Fresco’s on Elgin street, but didn’t get there until after 9pm. By then, I was participating in the conversation with half a mind, distracted as I was by my big, bloated boobies. And midway through a conversation over bread (and a little wine – I’m not dead, ya know!), I felt it.  Wet stickiness under my right upper arm as I reached to dip a piece into our fancy vinegar/oil plate.  Uh…okay. 

The padded bra and shirt were no match, it seemed, for the river of liquid that was starting to escape from my left boob.  This, by the way, is the ‘good’ boob. We like this boob because it produces the most milk, you see.  So it would stand to reason that the confines of my size F boob would not be enough to contain what was now a deluge of milk. 

So, what does one do?  Time to head off to the bathroom to figure something out.

Women’s washroom in use.  No one in the single washroom designated for men (so just a normal toilet loo, ya know? Not like I was over a urinal or something), and so I went in.  Because it was a single toilet room, I thought to myself, “NOW is the chance to try manual expression of breastmilk. I can do it in the sink. Wonder how this goes?”

And so I stripped of my shirt and lowered my non-nursing bra (another mistake – just because you aren’t opening your bra for a baby doesn’t mean you won’t have to do so for other reasons) and squeezed, rubbed and worked the milk down to the nipple, as I have been told you do.  It started as a drop or two.  Then…it happened.

Holy hose with leaks out the side batman!  Milk on the faucet, milk on the mirror, milk on the floor!  I had some cleaning to do.  Ah….that felt better, but wait!  I nearly jumped out of my skin: someone was pounding on the door.  Shit.  Now what?  Well, they would just have to wait.  I had just started to relieve some pressure, and had far to go.  Ok.  Back to it.  More squeezing. More random milkiness.  Fun times.  Another loud knock.  Damn.  Ok. What can I do?  Well, I got rid of a bit of it.  Why don’t I just fold a bunch of toilet paper and stick it into my bra and then sop up as much as I can from the wet bra and top? (Note: The only smart move of the day was wearing a VERY busy patterned top).  Done. 

And I’m out.  Walk past a small crowd of men wondering what the hell? and keep moving. 

Eat dinner.  Try make conversation while focusing on engorged boobs. Leave. Walk through the door and make beeline for pump, shedding top and bra in the process.

The toilet paper was sodden, sticking randomly all over my boob and nipple.  Take time to peel and rub this off.  Put on nursing bra and top. Aaand…

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Relief!

What comes next? I pump more than I’ve ever pumped before.  And thank gawd, because you know what? The experiment proved my fears…sure enough my milk supply went down IMMEDIATELY that night and the next two days until such time as I was able to eat more oatmeal, get back on the pump, and drink my prolactation tea (as well as take my domperidone).  Good times.

Such was my experiment.  Won’t be trying THAT again anytime soon.

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2 thoughts on “The booby experiment

  1. Yep, feeling your pain. I went out for poker night a few months ago, and was so uncomfortable. I made several trips to the loo to manually express. I still won the game though. My boob was sore for a week after. That was the last time for that!!

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