I attend a women's weekend every year with five or six
girlfriends from college. The rule is no children or husbands allowed.
Every year one of us is pregnant, or pumping. One year I had my turn
pregnant, this was my year to be pumping.We had chosen a luxurious spa in Palm Springs, California and had
settled into the resort comfortably. My friends learned to sleep over
the motor noise of the breast pump, and the sloshing of the milk into
the bottles. I was up several times a night pumping with the bathroom
light on.
One evening we got all dressed up to go to the bars. I wore this dress
with a girdle-type top that pushed up my breasts. I was amazed at how
much cleavage I had! I wore a red blazer over the dress to cover up a
bit. We started at this Latin club, where our group spilt apart and
the other half went down the street. The three of us stayed for a
while and then went down the street to the other bar. The bouncer was
asking for I.D.'s, and my purse was with the other women already
inside. I hadn't needed it yet; I was drinking water and dancing.
He says, "Sorry, I can't let you in with out an I.D."
I argue, "My purse is inside, I'm 32 years old. This is a
compliment."
My girlfriend argued, "But she is a nursing Mom. You should see
her boobs - they are huge!"
He looks at me and then my chest. So I opened my blazer. My breasts
were engorged, pushed up and probably looked like sexual objects in
his eyes. But in my eyes, they didn't belong to him, my husband, or
even me. They are my daughters. My breasts are what sustain, satisfy,
and comfort her. It is for her that I pumped, deprived myself of
sleep, and drank lots of water, while on vacation.
I just laughed as he let me in the bar.
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Breastfeeding
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