The first time I ever heard about breast pumps was when one of my best college friends pumped in the way back of a car while a bunch of us were driving around on vacation in New Orleans. (She had left her baby for the weekend and needed to pump to keep producing milk while she was away.)
I didn’t really know what she was doing exactly in the back of that car but it was apparently very important because the term “liquid gold” kept being thrown around.
Once I had a baby, I learned all about the pumping thing. That basically you hook up a machine to your boobs and then it hopefully sucks the milk out like some sort of human cow while making a bizarre noise that sounds like a secret message from the dairy gods.
Meanwhile, the husbands have to act like it is completely normal to see their lovely wives attached to one of these medieval contraptions.
One of the worst things is pumping while at work. Because you invariably forget and all of a sudden you are in some meeting while your breasts, which have grown to the size of honeydew melons, are leaking faster than the BP Gulf oil spill. You have to immediately excuse yourself and seek refuge.
And unless you work for some fancy company with a deluxe breast pumping suite (I did not), you have to barricade yourself in cold, public bathroom so you can pump and bring yourself some relief. Then you shove the milk in a community fridge and hope Eddie from Ad Sales doesn’t mistake it for his vanilla creamer.
I’m on my 5th kid and I’ve barely pumped this go around. But my sister Quinn who works 3 days a week as a lawyer must pump regularly. Which is fine because she has an office with a lock.
Except the lock broke.
So when it was time to pump, she shut the door and left this note for anyone who might come by wanting to see her….
Surely, that girl deserves a new lock because it’s only a matter of time before some harried paralegal comes barreling in with a frantic deadline and has to witness what only a husband should have to see. They will be sorry indeed.