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Motherhood has come with a whole host of unexpected lessons and experiences. While I like to think of myself as an information hungry over-achiever, and I, consequently, read every parenting/baby/pregnancy/nursing/boob/vagina book I could get my hands on while preggo, I’ve come to find that there are many experiences to which the written word cannot do justice. Because what can truly prepare you for motherhood?! NOTHING! That’s what. It’s a trial by fire exercise. Every. Damn. Day.

Here’s a few thoughts on breastfeeding and yes, my boobs, that I couldn’t have seen coming even with the  aid of the Hubble Telescope and a healthy dose of feminism:

I never could have anticipated needing to adjust my ENTIRE wardrobe to accommodate my now overflowing rack. I know, you’re thinking, “Isn’t that every chick’s dream? BIG HOOTERS?!” Yeah, big hooters that sag, come complete with lava-like stretch marks, flying saucer areola, and enough bodily fluids to feed a small nation? I think not. Unless you think expressing breastmilk is fun party trick or that nip stains are TOTALLY a conversation starter, I’d say negative. Look, before pregnancy and breastfeeding, my boobs were a non-event. Not too small, not too big, just right. Straight up Goldie Locks. They didn’t distract. They didn’t hinder my clothing repertoire. They just were. A handful. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Okay, you get the idea.

NOW? Well, now I have to not only worry about my access to them (because being able to flash a boob in a hot second is of utmost importance when you only have 10 minutes to pump during a class break, k? Or a screaming, hungry infant, that too), but I have to worry that I’m not walking around like Tits McGee offending everyone with my larger-than-life nipples that like to peep out of shirts that were previously acceptable enough for a church. Yes, as in Ashley’s boobs pre-Bug would not have traumatized the Baby Jesus. Not now, folks. Now my nipples want to greet every passing stranger, EVEN JESUS, with a little HI, HELLO, DO YOU LIKE THIS DRESS?! I need a straight up birkat to try to contain them and the cleavage that has resulted from my flowing mammary glands.

And on that note, finding private or “suitable” spaces in which to feed or PUMP my engorged chest? Futile. I might as well stand naked in the middle of the USC quad, in broad daylight, during class changes, and hump Tommy Trojan. I would feel less in the spotlight, and would receive far fewer glances of disgust and disapproval. Not to get up on my soap box, but I am LIVING every Women and Gender Studies course I’ve ever taken (that’s a lot). That little critique about our patriarchal, man-loving society not being so friendly, or welcoming, or accommodating to nursing mothers?! ENTIRELY TRUE! And don’t get me started on trying to navigate stairs and doorways to public buildings with the stroller while onlookers awkwardly avert their gaze and shuffle their feet to avoid helping the flustered mother whose nips are waving at them for assistance. I feel for the wheel-chair bound in a whole new capacity. And I mean that seriously.

Today I spent 40 minutes of my day pumping breastmilk while seated on a public toilet. My ass crack has been ripped asunder and my butt cheeks are no longer a pair. I did this because there was literally no other option save standing in a hallway, or whipping it out in the middle of class (I WISH I were that bold) to relieve my aching breasts. See, when the milk comes in, a searing pain rages in your chest, and you can literally feel the ducts raise up into mini-river-like-passageways with a big ol’ dam clogging the flow. You gotta release the dam.

So during a brief 10 minute break during a 3 hour seminar, and then immediately after class, I assumed the position on the porcelian throne. I do hope that my stall mates enjoyed the hum of the pump.

My favorite part of this new ritual is that each Wednesday I pack myself food in a cute little lady bug lunch box to help get me through the 12 hour day. I include ice packs in this box to keep my beverages FROSTY. During that twelve hours, I fill plastic baggies of milk that then get thrown in among the plastic baggies of snack food. I then tote my bodily fluids around campus as though they were a Capri Sun.

For whatever reason, I am amused all day by the vision of my boob milk jostling around with my Cheez-Its. Mainly because no amount of reading could have prepared me for this necessity.

Only in motherhood.