I'm Going To Talk About My Boobs, Again. And Not In A Sexy Way

Did you know that you don't have to be a budding alcoholic, blearily plodding your way through your freshman semester of med school, to go 72 hours without sleep and still be alive? Did you know that? Well, I do. You know how I know?

BECAUSE I'M DOING IT.

Harmony is going through a growth spurt and natures way of making sure she doesn't starve to death is to turn her into a rabid, nipple junkie. The thing is, my body is supposed to adapt to meet her needs. I should be spraying milk in geysers, milk should be shooting from my fucking eyes at the rate this kid attacks me, and instead, my body is rebelling and producing less.

Chris knows how important breastfeeding is to me and has been wringing his hands and falling apart right alongside me.

"Well? How much did you get this time?"

"Looks like ... 4 ounces. God. She's eyeballing me. This will be like throwing a strip of bacon to a fucking T-Rex. She'll eat me alive."

"Okay, okay, I'm thinking. You said massage can help, right? And something about beer aiding production?"

"Yeah, massaging to assist let down. And the beer thing is a wive's tale, I think, but it's my kind of wive's tale. Booby up to the bar! Lord, I'm tired."

"I'll go to the store."

A few hours later when it was time for me to pump again, we warned Devon so he'd hole up in his room and my husband positioned himself behind me to get better access. What I have is a double pump, so holding those on takes both of my hands. It was up to him to massage and I'm sure you know he was horrified at the prospect. With a great, big shit-eating grin on his face.

We began.

"Is that okay? Am I massaging too hard?"

"No. But what are you doing with your other hand?"

"Holding the beer. Perv."

"Gimme."

He held the beer up to my lips, furiously massaging with his right hand and feeding beer to my face with his left while I held both pumps to my flunky boobs. It was at this particular moment that my daughter came scampering down the hallway in an excited state, eager to tell us about the new Kim Possible or her latest booger or some such thing. She sees me pump on a regular basis, but this was a whole new ballgame. She came to a screeching halt, surveyed the scene and her brow furrowed.

"What are you guys doing?"

Chris took the beer away from my lips so that I could answer.

"Well, sweetheart, in a progressive world, this would be called pro-active milk stimulation. In Mississippi, however, we call this a date."

I will forever remember the look on her face. Especially when I'm writing the check for her first therapy session.