Warning: the topic of this blog entry is boobies. And no, I'm not writing about naughty magazine boobies. I'm talking new mama boobies.Three weeks ago, Jon and I had our first extended period away from our little guy. And by extended period, I mean from 2 pm until my bedtime. We were celebrating the marriage of our two great friends Katherine and Sacha. My parents had offered to drive down to our place for the weekend to watch over their angelic little grandson. Free babysitting from Granny and Grandpa? Who could say no?
Leading up to that weekend, I was dreaming about what I would do with my night off Mom duty. My cousin and sister-in-law were over for lunch one day when I sighed, "You know what I miss? A real fishbowl full of wine."
My cousin, pregnant with her third little one, set me straight. "Sure, you can have a night off and have a few drinks, but remember that at some time during the night, someone may need you and only you." I assumed she wasn't talking about Jon.
So, the week before the wedding, along with printing up the wedding programs for Kat and Sach, shining Jon's shoes and practising walking in my heels, I was on a mission to expel enough milk to satisfy my boy's thirst while I was away from the house. Funny, a few weeks earlier, I had seen an episode of The Office where Kevin the accountant cries like a baby in front of new mom Pam. According to him, after a new mother hears a baby crying, "her you-know-whats fill up with you-know-what, and then her shirt gets all you-know-what." Click here to see the video clip if you want to laugh.
Well, you know what? Just as I was about to give up on pumping out a measly amount of milk while Marshall was sleeping, I heard a baby cry from down the street. All of a sudden, the floodgates opened and I was in the milk business. So, thank you, Kevin the accountant.
Fast-forward to the wedding day. The groom looked handsome, with just the right amount of nervous. The bride was gorgeous. And by 5 pm, that feeling welling up in my chest was more than just pride. "Oh my God, my boobs are getting big," I whispered to Jon.
"Ya, I noticed," he replied, moving his eyebrows in a hubba hubba kind of way.
After a "just checking in" phone call to my folks, it was on to the reception. New Mama decided to celebrate with a gin-and-tonic. And then a glass of white wine. And then, of course, a glass of champagne to toast the new couple. By then, it was around 8 pm and supper had not yet been served. The guests at my table were aware of the fact that I had planned on enjoying my night off to the fullest. When they saw me reaching for the water, they must have thought that my year-and-a-half out of commission had made me a lightweight with the booze. But in all honesty, I was feeling ill.
Really? Could I no longer tolerate the alcohol? Had it been that long?
Ugh, the room started to get unbearably cold. My bones began to ache. I was feeling so tired. I could sense that the others at my table had noticed my drop in enthusiasm. And then, I looked down at my bulging cleavage. Mother-of-God.
I was pretty sure that I had a case of mastitis, otherwise known as "milk fever."
"Can't you ... I don't know ... get rid of it?" Jon asked when I discreetly informed him of my condition.
"Where? How?" I asked, frazzled. With my luck, I'd manage to muck up my cocktail dress. And where exactly would I get rid of the milk backup in a public restroom? I wasn't about to bend over the sinks, and I certainly wasn't going to aim my breasts towards the toilet bowl.
I was looking pathetic sitting at the empty table with my husband's jacket draped over my shoulders while the other guests danced the night away. The groom kindly asked the waiter to bring me an extra-large slice of wedding cake. When that didn't do the trick (not surprising, really!), the maid of honour slipped me a Tylenol. That proved to be more successful.
By 11 pm, I was a new woman. "I'm back!" I valiantly announced to my table mates. Off came Jon's jacket. I grabbed my husband by the hand and dragged him onto the dance floor. It was probably while I was playing air guitar to AC/DC's You Shook Me All Night Long that my frantic parents attempted to reach me on my cell phone.
I got the phone message twenty minutes later and quickly punched in their number.
My exhausted father: "He's asleep."
Me: "How long had he been crying for?"
My exhausted father: "You don't want to know."
My exhausted mother: "We tried everything. All he wanted was his mama. When I showed him his GloWorm, Marshall's eyes lit up. When he tried sucking on the GloWorm's face and realized it wasn't your boob, he really lost it. That's when we called you."
Deflated me: "We're on our way."
We said our goodbyes. The groom gave me the biggest bear hug, prompting me to pray that I wouldn't explode on the both of us. Due to my measly consumption of booze, I was the designated driver. Hmph. It was while rolling on the highway back to suburbia that I pieced my night and my son's night together. We probably both began to feel uncomfortable at the same time. And we probably hit our peak of unbearable at about the same time, too. When my Tylenol finally took effect, Marshall was probably finally overcome by sleep.
It was our first night apart, and Marshall and I were both miserable. My cousin was right: At a certain time of the night, my kid wanted me and only me. And when 4 am rolled around and my little guy cried crankily from his crib, my guilt--and a whole lotta milk--went away when Marshall was breastfed and rocked back to sleep.
So, our first big night out didn't go as expected. It could have gone better. But I have to admit that I will never fill in that cocktail dress as well as I did that night.
