Pumped Up

I should know better than to expect the indignities to stop just because I'm quickly coming round the 1-year bend with Otter. And after the flight over, I figured karma owed me. And while nothing quite beats the airplane bathroom fiasco, SB is by no means letting me coast.

For the past 3 days she's been adjusting to her new surroundings by having replaced my normally crazy-independent, easy-going kid with a needy, clingy alien who has suctioned herself on to my legs, begging to be held 24/7 and crying dramatically if I so much as go out of sight-line.

I shouldn't be too hard on her - I get her confusion of being in a new place with new people while her dad and dog have inexplicably disappeared. I am her only constant and she'll be damned if she falls for the blink and miss it trap. Still, after living for close to 12 months with a baby who happily crawls off to a different room to entertain herself, it's a bit unsettling to suddenly spend time with a child who falls into hysterics if I go to the bathroom (which, I'm sad to say, I can't seem to do alone any more) without her.

But the coup de grace came today, as I valiantly tried to begin prepping milk bottles for our return journey. With my mother and aunt sitting on the bed to keep SB from exploring her way over the edge, I pumped, while attempting to keep up the nonchalant banter that was supposed to distract them from the fact that I am sitting on a bed with my boob attached to a mechanically whirring suction cup.

And I would have pulled it off too, had Otter not seen the pump, and gotten terribly concerned at the destination of the milk (which was clearly not going to her mouth). She voiced her displeasure by rather vigorously climbing into my lap and giving the invasive pump some light pushes. In bar culture, this should have been a sign to the offending pump to get the fuck out of dodge, before things got really, really serious. For my part, I wasn't willing to be put off my goal by a pissy baby (since it'll take several sessions to reach my 6-hour flight quota as it is). Some mediation was clearly needed.

Like a skilled diplomat, I assessed the situation: baby wants boob (for proprietary, not nutritional reasons); pump needs boob; baby willing to kick the living daylights out of pump to get boob; me unwilling to lose drops of milk literally wrung from my body by some territoriality. It looked dire.

Solution? Keep pumping the full boob while giving Otter access to the other one. Continue to remind self that this isn't for ever, and I'm doing a good thing by donating my body to others. Be interrupted from self-congratulatory musings by baby who, annoyed by the fact that the pump still seems to be coming out the winner, uses her 2 rather sizable bottom teeth to deliver her message. Watch as aunt flees the room. Refrain from cursing. Plan drunk-fest for the day I'm done nursing. Keep chatting with mom.

So, whatchya gonna throw at me next world?