Yes, I just wrote about breast pumps and I’m writing about them again. But my last post was about dads and pumps. This one is about me and my pump. Hey, it’s hard not to be obsessed with pumps and breastfeeding when you live it 24/7. So bear with me. This little tale is about how I smuggled my pump into a wedding reception last weekend

So there we were — our first date night since our daughter was born just over 3 months ago. I was thrilled to be all dressed up at a wedding, even if it meant I had to suffer through a 2-day pumping marathon leading up to it so the baby would have enough milk while we were gone. I managed to leave 2.5 bottles of pumped milk with the babysitter and grabbed my fancy purse, lipstick, and the pump, of course, and headed for the car.

When we pulled up to the country club, I asked my husband if I should bring the pump in. He looked at me. He was right. It definitely wouldn’t fit in my purse. Was I supposed to just stroll in with it nonchalantly? Hug his grandmother with it? Lift it in the air to make a point about how high the ceilings were in the church? Nah. I’d leave it in the car until/unless it was needed. Of course “until” beat out “unless” as soon as I hit the dance floor.  Let’s just say I was feeling full of more than just food. I had visions of my breasts bursting right there in the middle of “Runaround Sue” as my husband dipped and twirled me.  The milk would soak through my dress and send two little white pads swimming on a sea of milk to the bride’s perfectly manicured feet. I turned to my husband and said, “I need my pump.”

I sent him out to the car with my black shawl and told him to smuggle it back to me. He came back and we did the hand off. Then I carried my shawl like a football into the bathroom. This was a family wedding and my husband’s aunt who I haven’t seen in a long time began chatting with me as I hastily entered a stall. I chatted back as I hooked myself  up. Then I interrupted with an “Excuse me a moment,” and turned it on. I cringed. My pump is not quiet. Soon the bathroom was filled with a “Whir, whir, whir” sound. That conversation was over.

I wondered what people were thinking as they hurried in and out to use the stalls. I wondered if anyone was annoyed that I was occupying one of only three stalls for so long. I heard one woman say, “Been there, done that, sister!” When I emerged with a bottle of milk in my hand, one girl simply stared at me in silence. I thought, oh to be a 20-something party girl again when my only worry at weddings was whether I’d rip my nylons while going to the bathroom.