Blog a la Cart

James has been itching to help feed Addison. He is a wee bit jealous of the time that she and I share, ya know, when she’s strapped to my nip sucking the life force out of me. As much as I may kvetch about breastfeeding, I’ll be the first to admit that it is truly a marvelous and intimate experience, and I wouldn’t trade that bond for the world. I love gazing at my little sucker fish as she moves those dainty, sea anenome-esque fingers across my skin and fills her belly. That my sound creepy to all you none-nursing mothers out there, but trust me on this one. So this is is why James is jealous and I have been reluctant to share.

Well, remember that Master’s degree that is slowly but surely raping us of our life savings and driving us into astronomical amounts of debt? My time to return back to school is rapidly approaching and I decided that I needed to suck it up (punny, eh?) and purchase a cow teat milking machine, otherwise known as a breast pump, so that my child doesn’t starve while I’m in class. How noble, I know.

I used one of these bad boys when Addison first came home from the hospital to help jump kick my milk supply. And EHHH DOGGY, do those suckers work! The milk came in so hard I thought that my chest was going to explode and I had to lie down with a package of iced corn nailed to my breasts. While sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner that night, I insisted that the ceiling was leaking, given the pool of liquid puddling at my feet. Nope, just me and my very own Niagara falls! To say the least, I was reluctant to enter back into that world of having to watch my nipples get sucked and prodded through a translucent cone shaped valve. Ya know those cones that dog’s have to sport after they get fixed so that they don’t lick their junk? And the horrific humiliation painted across their faces while donning said cone? Ya, my nips look and feel about the same. Regardless, I bit the bullet and purchased a pump and bottles making chez Cart our very own dairy farm*.

Today, James hooks up the contraption and is all “On your mark, get set, GO!” like my boob is a car on the Talladega Superspeedway. Except, nothing happens. The machine pups and juts, but my nipple does not budge. Not even a flicker, let alone a suction. I immediately start weeping. I’m convinced that my boobs are flawed, AGAIN! And that they, once again, are failing to properly do all the things that breastfeeding mothers’ nipples are supposed to do. James just gathers up the pump and exists the room, leaving me sobbing onto my bare, MALFUNCTIONING boobs.

Minutes later I hear, “AH HA! I fixed it!” and James proudly struts into the nursery, shirtless, with a big, red circle surrounding his right nipple. He’s face of pride immediately drops when he sees my eye’s light up with glee.

“You’re not going to write about this on your blog, are you?”

Next thing you know, he’ll pull a Robert Deniro a la Meet the Fockers and I’ll have to explain to the neighbors why my husband is wandering around with a fake boob strapped to his chest.

Hey, at least he’s an involved father!

*Now, I know my milk isn’t dairy, but I was going for the image, kay?