“After this we’re getting pizza” read my pastel pink gym bag.
I still couldn’t believe I had made it to the airport on time- much less managed to pack all of my things between a book bag and a carry on. We had booked my fight 3 hours prior, I almost felt guilty not having told my husband I had yet to book a return trip.
I sat at the back of the gate beside the window and began sorting through my sofrita bowl. Then I felt a tinge coming down my breasts; it was new milk coming in. Little Beast was only a month and a half and I was still full-time breastfeeding. With so little time to pack and the rush of trying to make it to the airport I hadn’t thought about what I would do about my breast milk! I immediately regretted not having taken Hubs up on his offer to buy me a manual pump weeks prior.
It was a 5 hour flight to Oregon, by the 3rd hour my breasts began to pulsate in pain and my shirt was wet to the touch. Half an hour prior to landing I decided I could no longer take it. I had never manually expressed before but there was no better time than the present to learn. I apologized to the elderly couple beside me and pulled my jacket close as I made my way to the lavatory. I pulled my shirt down and hunched over the airplane bathroom sink. I was massaging the hard lumps in an effort to relief myself of the excessive milk when my door flew open. The old man in seat B shielded his eyes, profusely apologizing as he slammed the door shut. I took a deep breath and pushed the lock all the way; I was in far too much pain to care about what had just happened. After very little success, I decided to stuff my bra with tissue paper and make my way back to my seat. When the old man finally got back he mumbled something about getting his seatbelt back on. He avoided eye contact with me the rest of the flight. “Jeez!” I thought to myself, “You’d think he’d never seen a black titty before!”
