Adventures of the Milk Monkey

I love breastfeeding. I love my job. I hate pumping.

Sadly, the first two necessitate the third.

I was working last night, and getting into a good labor groove with my patient, when I felt something going drip...drip...drip...on my shoe. I thought, "Great! Maybe she's leaking!" But no.

You try explaining to a woman in labor that you need to go because you just leaked milk all over your feet. Trust me: in labor, that is not a persuasive argument.

In other monkey news:

Max will be five on Saturday. That still blows me away, that five years ago I was lying supine, hooked up to IVs and fetal monitors, having spinal needles sucking fluid out of my uterus to see how much longer I could keep my son inside before my body destroyed him. As evidenced by the Magical Mystery Pregnancy Tour of 2006, I remain much better at nursing my children than gestating them. But still, five years ago he was a fetus in that hostile uterine environment of mine, and now he's jumping around the living room doing "Pirates of the Caribbean" plays and yelling about how he can do his milk his ownself.

Sophie, on the other hand, does not do her milk her ownself. She takes it straight from the tap, prewarmed and delivered to her. Lazy babies.