I was browsing the internet for breast pumps, and I remembered the first one I bought.

Or rather, the husband had gone out and bought it. It was just a little Evenflo battery powered/AC adapter deal. Nothing too fancy. I was about 4 days postpartum, and the girl child was breast feeding like a champ. Chris wanted to get in on this “Feed the baby!” thing, so he had gone to the local box store, and picked up this pump.

Did I mention I was 4 days postpartum? So still all puffy looking and highly hormonal?

So I plugged the pump in and sat on the bed to use it. It was loud. Apparently, cheap does not equal discrete. The pump was doing it’s thing, and Chris poked his head around the door. My mechanically inclined husband was apparently fascinated by this machinery attached to my breast.

“Wow. It’s just like you’re a cow.” 

As soon as the words left his mouth, he got this “Oh, shit.” look on his face. As the blood rushed to my cheeks and the tears to my eyes, he started babbling, “That’s not what I meant, I just meant the machine. It’s like the ones on the dairy farm, that’s what I meant.”

He wasn’t really helping himself there, at all.

Obviously, I forgave him. Eventually.

Ah, memories.

Slightly Similar Nonsense:

• “Lactation Nurse”
• Master of Non-Verbal Communication
• 30 Days-Day 2-Something You Love (about yourself)
• The School Year is Coming!
• My Sneaky Son

My first child, our daughter, was born a whole six years ago. After she was born, before we even moved from labor and delivery over to recovery, a “lactation nurse” came to help us get started with that whole breastfeeding thing.

Now, I’d never done this before. And even though I had thoroughly studied all sorts of books on the art of breastfeeding and such, I figured I should give this lady, who surely must be trained in the breastfeeding department, a shot at helping us out.

So the lactation nurse cooed over the baby, and then went to help us get latched. And my daughter, having been born with a trace of vacuum cleaner in her, apparently, glommed right on and started suckling away.

Except…it hurt. It hurt a LOT. And all the books had claimed that breastfeeding properly wouldn’t hurt. (I’ve since learned that the books, they lie! But that’s a different story) So I spoke up, somewhat timidly and let the nurse know that this was downright painful.

“Oh, you’ll get used to it, honey,” she assured me, patting my arm before bustling off to her next patient.

Well, this was really painful. It just did not feel right at all. So I popped my little Dyson darling off of my breast, and discovered that while she had indeed latched on, it was not onto my nipple. About a 1/2 inch too high, there was an ugly hickey on my breast.

Moral of the story: Tacking the word lactation onto someone’s title does not an expert make.

Slightly Similar Nonsense:

• Cow says Moo
• My Baby Girl is Growing Up
• Heart Break
• Sometimes I Feel Bare-Assed, Too
• Another Boy