I feel like I’m a sexy mom. A fun mom. I never say that aloud, I just want people to know that I enjoy time with my kids and time as an “adult.” Time not panicking about who pooped, peed or put something in their mouth.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids to the ends of the earth but damn it feels good to put my heels and makeup on and go out and not have to listen to one more fucking word from Caillou. Yo can all parents unite and ban him from television? And can we shut down Kids YouTube? That thing is like crack for toddlers. They sit in their room full of fucking toys I spent money on and watch OTHER kids play with toys. The fuck? Does that even make sense? I spent fifty bucks on a Baymax yet you’re watching this little kid Ryan play with the same Baymax you own?
Anyway, I digress.
What I was saying was I like to party, go out and still have fun–“adult” fun, anything x-rated, preferably with alcohol, cursing, and the musings of sexily clad women, including myself, who talk about “adult” things like sex, or fancy dinners. Though we usually wind up talking about THE sex that led to the kids and THE fancy dinners our kids don’t let us enjoy, so yes, we wind up talking about our kids dammit, but that’s not the point!
[she loses her train of thought]
Where was I going? See, this is what happens when you’re perpetually interrupted with “mom, mom, mom, mom, mommy, mom, mama, mom” in the middle of profound thoughts about… [she forgets AGAIN]
Ugh. As an “adult” I decided to travel to Las Vegas, the City of Sin (twice) because I love the emphasis on vices and adult fun, both times I was breastfeeding.
[she goes off track again]
I like how we say “adult” like if having children makes us children again although eating nuggets that fell on the floor because your kid won’t eat it, memorizing and randomly singing every single Disney song ever made, secretly wishing the child who just hit your child falls on his face and curling up in the fetal position and crying because you don’t wanna leave the house today maybe qualifies as proof that moms are no longer adults when surrounded by their children.
Back to Vegas, I was breastfeeding. Which, of course, even preparing for the trip was an ordeal. You’re talking extra breast pads, extra bras, breast pump, bottles for dumping! All because my ass wanted to travel without my babies suckling my boobs! Then there’s the absolutely profound guilt, of leaving your two or five or eight month old behind.
What kind of mother are you?!?
I’m sure THOSE judgmental moms would flip if they knew I went out to the clubs at nine months pregnant (twice!). Sipping on pineapple juice and watching all the women roll their eyes as I tried to dance my babies outta me. I would give them the look like, “y’all gonna learn today! How the hell you think we got pregnant?” Duh! Sex! Moving sexy, looking sexy and feeling sexy with our man. It’s usually that good sex too–I never understood why people think being a mom makes you completely NON-sexual. Birth control done left y’all jaded.
Anyway, I was at a pool party and having a grand ol’ time. I knew my baby was being well taken care of so I put on my “adult” bikini (the one you don’t wear at the family pool) and danced and drank the day away– [contemplative] which is what I usually do at home on my days off anyway at 11am just in sweats.
Time must’ve escaped me, because all of a sudden I felt like there were drunk vultures all around me, more than usual. And that’s when it struck me… like literally the pain from my boobs almost exploding. There was boobs on the top, boobs on the side, boobs exploding out of the bottom. I felt like BoobZilla! It was like I grew two cup sizes in 4 hours. I started to panic and I told my syster we had to leave but we were having a good time and we knew they would never let us back in since the party was lit and the line was around the corner.
So while tipsy I went to the bathroom with the wet floors, smelling like chlorine and cheap body mist. And I went to work. I mean I took those bad boys in between my hands and starting to squirt that milk like if it was a competition on Survivor or something. There’s a whole technique for hand milking, THINK milking a REAL cow by hand only in this instance I was the cow, and milking myself. You gotta squeeze then tug, squeeze then tug.
[she modestly demonstrates]
Finally after a good ten minutes I was able to leave the bathroom and return to the pool party, traumatized but not swollen anymore like if I had just undergone breast augmentation.
I was traumatized because I was so drunk and couldn’t believe that I couldn’t save that damn milk for my baby because I had been drinking and I wasted it all by squeezing it into a toilet (profound guilt). Talk to any breastfeeding mama about her liquid gold and you will understand the tears. Then I realized I was in Vegas again, AND drunk and thought “how the fuck would I have sent it anyway?” So I sat down in the middle of this pool party while the world famous DJ was playing his set and googled “how to save expressed milk while on vacation away from baby.”