Anecdote of the Day: Why Does the Milk Taste Funny?

For those who think pumping is easy, its not. Any kind of pumping, really. Pumping weights, for example. I don't think you can legitimately call lifting five pounds "pumping weights". I imagine a burly guy laying on a bench with two hundred pounds of steel being hoisted in the air accompanied with heavy grunts. That's me with pumping at work. (Editor's Note: I never meant to keep writing about stuff that has to do with moms, it just seems to overtake my life at the moment with a 5 month old. Sorry friends, I promise my next post will have NOTHING to do with babies, motherhood, etc.) 


It's big trouble. I've got about 15 minutes to will as much milk into that bottle as I can humanly manage before I have to run back to my office. This probably could be a fairly easy and stress free process except for a few things: First, I have to leave my office and go all the way across campus to a bathroom that has a seat and a plug. Why so far? Because it's the only relatively quiet place around, and the idea of being barged in on while I'm hooked up like a cow being milked is just too unbearable. I didn't come from a naked house and all parts should be covered! Second, I have yet to explain to my employer why I'm squirreling away, shamefaced, every day at exactly 11:15AM. You'd think it would be obvious, a working mother who is BFing, the kid's got to get the milk somehow right? But my boss is a guy who is my age, and while his wife is preggo and he's not stupid or weird about women, I just don't think its something he has thought about. And it's not that I don't think he'd be understanding and cool about the whole 15 minutes off thing to feed my kid, I just cannot bring myself to talk about It.

Ok anyways, back the to anecdote. With my work comes the added annoyance pleasure of working with the elderly who help run the church. One that I work closely with is a fairly awesome 70-something guy who swears and loves halloween (although not in church. the swearing I mean). He's head of finances and is always popping into my office needing something. So remember this guy, who I will refer to as Fred. He's important.

The refrigerator in the staff room is always full of the weirdest things. There are over 40 employees and someone is always leaving leftovers and trash in there, and goodness knows what really belongs to who after a certain point. I usually stuff my little neatly sealed of bag of milk gold in the back of the freezer. It's labeled, clearly says what it is...well it says Mother's Milk on the back (thank you Lasinoh for spelling it out so clearly) and is frozen into a small block.

Yesterday I ran out of bags and forgot to bring one to work. AH oh no what to do...so I grabbed a styrofoam cup and put my name on it and poured the liquid gold in. (Editor's Note: It's liquid gold because you can pump for a half an hour and get 3 ounces and get more excited than when you go to Disneyworld, it's that big of a pain. The gold is HIGH COMMODITY.)

Awhile later, Fred comes waltzing into my office asking about the date on the milk and if it's bad.

I pause, wondering what the heck he is talking about.

Fred goes on to explain he didn't have anything for his coffee and he found the milk in the back in a neat styrofoam cup and since it's got my name on it I must know how old it is.

I tried to conceal my horror as I assured him it was fresh. Quite fresh, actually.


After he left, I put up my little "Gone Away" sign and drove my liquid gold home, mourning the loss of over an ounce, feeling a little sick, and wondering when I'll be able to look at Fred the same way again. Probably never.