Don't Go Out in a Cheap Bra!

Words of advice from a mom who knows
By Michelle Hottya

It was a normal day just like any other in the three weeks since my daughter Madelyn was born. Which is to say that every day was a blur of breastfeeding, changing diapers, pacing and rocking, madly rushing through meals, showers and naps before the baby woke up again. Feeling lucky to have such a good baby I peered through the fog of my new life and wondered if I could accomplish something normal today.

I decided to go to the grocery store.

I spent the whole day preparing. During Madelyn's morning nap, I made the shopping list. After her noon feeding, she watched me from the swing as I weeded out six months of expired coupons from my coupon organizer, leaving it nearly empty. After ten minutes of clipping a few new coupons and throwing out the old, Madelyn decided that I had done enough. It was time for her to eat again.

By three o'clock, we were ready to go. I was exhausted. Nevertheless, I forced myself to continue with the plan and got us in the car and to the store.

Madelyn fell asleep in the car, and napped in her car seat atop the shopping cart through the first few aisles. I tried not to spend too much time comparing prices and searching the coupon items, as I tend to in my never-ending struggle to save as many pennies as possible. Everything was fine until we hit the freezer section in the middle of the store.

Upon entering the refrigerated aisles, the cold air awoke Madelyn. I fished a blanket from the diaper bag while piling half a dozen cans of orange juice concentrate into the cart. I found a rattle to keep her occupied, helped her to clasp her little hand around the rattle and hoped this feeble entertainment would keep her occupied through the rest of the store. It was not meant to be.

Madelyn decided to launch into full wail. In flailing her arms, she flung the rattle, nearly hitting an elderly gentleman examining packages of fish sticks. I dashed to pick up the rattle. As I leaned over, I felt my left breast, which was at a reduced state having been fully drained at the last nursing, slip out of the cheap bra I was wearing. Just as the breast came out the top, the disposable breast pad slid out of the bra, down my shirt and hit the floor. As my nipple emerged into the chilly air, protected only by my loose, maternity t-shirt, the sensation triggered a letdown and I felt my milk start to spray.

I had to escape. The nice gentleman, probably not knowing what was happening to me, or maybe knowing exactly what was going on, mildly stated, "Miss, you seem to have dropped something."

I swiped up the rattle and breast pad, muttered, "Excuse me," and raced the cart to the next aisle, which I gratefully noted, was deserted. As I replaced my boob and pad in the cursed flimsy bra, I peered up at the security camera bubble on the ceiling and imagined the security guards in a darkened room giggling their heads off. I ditched my plan to see the rest of the store, headed straight for the checkout and took my baby and groceries home.

Since then, my husband does all the grocery shopping.