Shit on my hands

MH

First ever night away from T went like this: Dragged away from front door by best friend S who is coming with me to a Very Important Event in Sydney. Cry heartily for approximately one minute at the prospect of not seeing my baby’s two-teethed grin for 24 hours, but then become quickly excited about being temporarily relieved of mothering responsibilities. Flight is delayed and breasts are rapidly ballooning. So it’s off to the parents’ room with the manual pump. Position myself on a crappy plastic chair, attach pump and try to read the Monthly while ignoring the revolting state of my surrounds. Make note to self: never bring T into a place like this – unless you want her to catch cholera. A frazzled mum and her two toddlers (one of whom has apparently experienced explosive diarrhoea due to an overdose of airport canteen orange juice) and constant PA announcements (‘This is the last call for passengers flying to the Gold Coast on Tiger Airways flight DJ 826’) don’t contribute to the most relaxing of environments. Been here 10 minutes and I don’t think I’ve even had a milk let down yet. 40 minutes later I tip a miserable 60 mils down the sink and boobs are still huge. The flight’s okay – aside from the pale hung-over dude in the window seat who pours sweat and holds his chuck bag at the ready.

Cab it from the airport to our passable motel in Glebe. Would love to spend a few hours browsing shops with S but I’m absolutely knackered after two night feeds. So it’s a quick lunch and another 40 minutes spent uselessly pumping milk. Boobs still enormous and getting lumpy. Try and nap for an hour. S returns, we get glammed up, jump in another cab. Arrive at The Very Important Event. Schmooze, try to speak into a microphone in a way that demonstrates I know my shit and that I’m not completely ga-ga with fatigue. Thrilled that Sydney-based other best friend R has been able to make it. Along with his boyfriend G and S we have a glorious baby-free dinner. I drink Wine AND beer. But this very chic restaurant has only one unisex bathroom so I can’t take the edge of my engorged boob agony. I’m going to start bellowing like an un-milked cow soon! R and G insist that we return to theirs for a nightcap. I say fine, as long as they don’t mind me pumping my boobs the whole time. Which is what I do. Relieve myself of about 150 mil, a teaspoon of which R consumes on a dare.

Taxi back to hotel, more pumping, fitful sleeping due to rock-hard tits, more pumping, wake up at 6:30 to catch return flight.  I think I can make it home without my breasts exploding. Ring M from the airport to make sure he and T will be home when I return so I can stick a nipple straight in her mouth. Sitting diagonally from me on the plane is a mum with her 5 month old. He grizzles and giggles; my bra becomes sodden with leaking milk. Arrgghh! But I enjoy my last hour of the baby-free trip having a lovely uninterrupted conversation with S.

Arrive at Tulla and collect S’s car from the short-term park. It has a flat tyre. SHIT. My boobs can’t possibly take any further delay. Ring M and he directs me to flutter my eyelashes at the nearest male and ask him to change the tyre. Instead S drives to the airport servo and like She-Ra the Warrior Princess, she pumps up the tyre herself. We travel nervously along the freeway and down Bell Street and finally to my front door. M is there with a crying T. I rip off my dress, pull out my girls (M: ‘Holy Cow! You look like Brynne Gordon on Brownlow night!’) and I’m intimately reunited with my little baby. I haven’t experienced this kind of relief and sheer joy since the day she emerged into the world. Lesson learned: Sure, you can go away for a night – but not until your baby is weaned!