Sunday, August 14, 2005
So I pumped a lot of milk while I was away on vacation. I really missed my son from about the moment I was left at the airport and cried most of the way to California, partly because I read on the plane the end of Geneen Roth's "The Craggy Hole in My Heart and the Cat Who Fixed It," about her dying dad and dying cat, and partly because I hadn't slept in about 24 hours. So when I wasn't sobbing and alarming my seatmate, I was stone cold unconscious with my head lolling around like a half-deflated balloon. But I eventually calmed down when I saw my friends and the pumping helped me feel like I was doing something for my child, even though I was actually being selfish and self-indulgent and getting spa treatments and sleeping more than six hours a night.
My plan was to freeze all the milk in the fridge of the suite we rented, then bring it all back in a large insulated bag I'd picked up at Trader Joe's a couple of years ago for $2.99. Every night before bed, every morning when I woke up and every afternoon, I set up the pump, shoved my boobs into it and turned it on: Wonk-week, wonk-week, wonk-week. By the end of my four-day stay, I had more than 100 ounces of breast milk, and my roommates never wanted to see my boobs again. And did it all survive the trip back to New York, stuffed deep in my suitcase?
Yes. And it got just a little slushy.
My plan was to freeze all the milk in the fridge of the suite we rented, then bring it all back in a large insulated bag I'd picked up at Trader Joe's a couple of years ago for $2.99. Every night before bed, every morning when I woke up and every afternoon, I set up the pump, shoved my boobs into it and turned it on: Wonk-week, wonk-week, wonk-week. By the end of my four-day stay, I had more than 100 ounces of breast milk, and my roommates never wanted to see my boobs again. And did it all survive the trip back to New York, stuffed deep in my suitcase?
Yes. And it got just a little slushy.
