I had a simple job. Register for the middle-of-the-line double breast pump while Nate ran to get a copy of our registry, because I'm going to try really hard to breast-feed Milo when he gets here. Let's just ignore the fact that I felt like I owed my mom a public apology for breast-feeding. Let's also pretend that I promised my brother-in-law that I would at least try to breast-feed for some reason other than that he promised if I did he would never say the word colostrum to me again. In short, breast-feeding grosses me out, and pumping seems even worse - like milking yourself. But I'm trying so hard to be a good mommy (already, before he's even here).
And yet, standing in the middle of the aisle at Target, completely bewildered, all I could do is stare in quasi-horror at these instruments of torture and think, "Do I really want anyone to buy this for me?" I realized that I was brandishing my scanner like a weapon, as if my self-conscious were already acting in self-defense, and dropped my arms to my sides, though everything about a breast pump makes me want to keep my arms crossed.
I quickly located what seemed like a safe bet, something by The First Years, and moved in to scan it, but there was a woman in her early twenties standing there in my way. She was feeling the nozzles (is that what you call the cone/funnels that attach to you?), carefully inspecting the pumps and carrying bags, even noting the packaging and mumbling, "Hmmmmm," as she went. She was the exact opposite of me - intense and focused, enjoying the idea of using one of these foul machines, and perhaps imagining the thrill. I hated to interrupt, but just being in that aisle was making me short of breath.
"Excuse me, could I just pop in here and scan this really quickly?" I politely asked.
"Oh, of course. I'm not even pregnant," she responded, smiling at me sheepishly, then quickly casting her eyes down.
And then she said the words that stopped me in my tracks, horrified. "I don't even know why I like looking at breast pumps so much."
Excuse me? You like looking at breast pumps? So this is just a recreational activity on a Saturday night, and not a matter of necessity? Could you just pick one out for me when you're done feeling them up, then, and let me get on with my shopping? Perhaps we should chat delightedly about episiotomies and hernias when you're finished as well?
I'm sure my smile barely masked my terror as I leaned over to scan my choice, and she strolled off to who knows where? Do they sell home enemas or anything at Target? I was still standing there stunned when Nate returned, wondering what had me so perplexed.
"I can't even talk about it, baby. But let's go look at something happy."
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