When Pump And Dump Goes Terribly Wrong
Welcome to Everything Is Embarrassing with Sam and Haely. Consider this our little corner to share our most awkward, questionable parenting moments so you’re able to feel better about your own life. If you want advice, we aren’t it — we’re just two moms with aggressive top knots, open hearts, and bribery candy trying to figure out this parenting circus and remind you that YOU’RE DOING GREAT. (Actually we have no idea but just go with it.)
And now to the moment at hand, where Haely steps out on her first night out post baby totally unprepared. (Co-written by Sam and Haely)
Haely: The first night out after having a baby is the stuff us women dream of. At last, a moment to trade in the nursing bra for a push-up sitch, and a milk-stained robe for a sexy dress to show off the girls. All topped with the coveted taste of sweet, sweet freedom, and pegged to the promise of the holy pump and dump.
It was my first real night out since having my son. We’re talking not just dinner or a movie. We’re talking dancing, and maaaybe staying out after midnight if we were feeling wild. Which I was. My gay bestie from New York, Marcus, was visiting and I had to show him I still had my edge, even with a 6-week old at my hip. Plus it was important to show my husband mama got moves he’s never even seen.
Bidding adieu to my sitter and chunky nugget, I grabbed a hand pump I’d just ordered from Amazon, but never tested out before. My friend Marcus snapped a picture in the car to commemorate the magic of my perky rack (yes that one right above us). As we drove off, me buckled in under my enormous milk jugs, I figured it’d be good to see how this sucker worked before the white wine buzz hit. I struggled to attach the flanges and soon realized there was absolutely ZERO suction. (Post script: These things come in different sizes??) Totally clueless and riding high on enthusiasm, I gave up without much thought and left the pump in the car.
Halfway through dinner I realize my ladies are starting to fill up. Fast. Not overly concerned, I ordered a second sauvignon blanc and figure I’ll just have to deal with having huge boobs all night. I’ve definitely endured worse.
My friends marveled at their quickly growing size as you might gape at Black Rock City rising from the dust — it was an event to witness. All this affirmation and I barely noticed they were slowly turning into granite. By 8 p.m. they were ROCK HARD. Uh oh. The night was young and I was panicked. What was I supposed to do? I honestly hadn’t thought this far ahead, nor was I ever told what do when you don’t have a baby to feed or a pump to pump. There were no rules and I grabbed my husband, whispering that sh*t was about to get real.
There was only one option. I would have to milk myself.
I quickly excused myself to the bathroom, realizing this was about to go from full-cupped to raw, real freaking fast. As I entered the bathroom, I assessed my options: A) Milk into the sink and not have to break my back bending over, or B) go for the toilet and hope to holy hell it can get in there without making a huge mess. Option B sounded more painful, so I went with the sink.
I’ve never milked anything, let alone my own tit, so this was extremely uncomfortable.
Without skipping a beat, I started to hand express and 30 seconds in, the door swung wide open and a younger woman, early 20s, entered. HELLO STRANGER! HERE’S MY BOOB! She said absolutely nothing and darted into a stall almost as quickly as I did. Oh dear mother of god. Why, why why did I choose the sink?!
That was obviously the worst choice, but in my sadly low-tolerance-sauv-blanc-haze, I hadn’t thought this through. Panicked and sweaty, I faced my heart of darkness. Just me and the toilet. A journey up the river. I’ll be honest, I’ve never milked anything, let alone my own tit, so this was extremely uncomfortable.
Do I pull it up? Down? Out? Tiny dribble by tiny dribble, I clocked 20 minutes of back-breaking labor until I was in a stable place without immense pain. Let’s just say I’ve had a baby, I’ve built a business, and getting my boobs down to a safe off-road tire pressure was some of the hardest work I’ve ever done.
I returned to the table a changed woman. A woman who’d seen things. Things the others would never know or understand. My expression was disoriented enough to elicit some worried responses. I assured my friends I was “totally fine” in an effort to not interrupt their half-eaten pasta carbonara, but truth is I’d been to hell and back in that stall. As I looked up, I saw my bathroom friend and sheepishly smiled. She’ll have a lot to Google tonight. Get ready honey!
To this day, I’ve never heard of any mother hand expressing in a public bathroom and I have to wonder: am I the only one? Are other moms just super prepared? Is there a quick-release tap I failed to find? Either way, it was time to share the real story of what happened that night. A biblical offering into the bowels of L.A.
The last word from Sam: 9/10 embarrassings; but maybe these are transferrable skills for future farm life?
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