My boobs can tell time! Bet yours can't....

Since I have become a food source, (which, frankly, is just totally wack) there have been several ripple effect changes in my life, none of which was even remotely expected. The expected change e.g gigantic knockers did NOT occur, mainly because life is cruel. What DID happen is, well, weird. Since the Infant has developed something of a 'feed me' routine, I as food source, have had to fall in line with said routine. The negative reenforcement should I not is really pretty dreadful and is measured in decibels. So I got with the program. After 2 1/2 months of training, we developed this was a lovely symbiotic cover-of-a-mommy-book loving kind of relationship. She'd cry, I'd whip 'em out, everyone was happy.
Then, just when my boobs for fully trained to perform on command, we ran into a little scheduling hiccup, called "working full time". Regardless, every 3 1/2 hours or so the kitchen opens at the brestaurant as scheduled. Not so useful since the Infant is all of 20 miles away. There IS a way around this, but man is it inelegant.
Generally, whipping 'em out in a workplace is frowned upon, unless, of course, your boss is called 'Guido'. My boss is called 'Scott' so, really, not so much. However, when one is a food source, in enlightened aren't-we-so-understanding companies it is considered acceptable to slink off to the 'mother's room' aka the milking barn to have a little rastlin' session with the archaic torture device known as a 'breast pump'.
I have a long and difficult history with said mechanical boob sucker. We had a really rocky start since I was using it to convince my body that I needed to make milk. I wasn't actually MAKING milk when the pumping started so I'd have the thing on full mega suction and, after 30 minutes of high powered mechanical titty-twisters, would extract all of .025 of an oz. of milk. Epic Fail! And emotionally draining, especially considering all this was happening in the first 2 weeks after the major surgery that produced the Infant. I'd come to view the Sucking In Style boobulator with a great deal of trepidation, for obvious reasons.
However, there came a healing in our relationship. See, when one is all boobjuiced up, you begin to develop a somewhat...er... FULL feeling. And not a good full feeling, more of a 'ok don't TOUCH those, OW' full feeling. And if the fullness continues unrelieved, the tatas develop an every rack for themselves mentality and open the pressure release valve, at which point you end up with large damp circles right over your knockers, bulls eye style. I remind you again, that I am back at work. Large damp knocker circles are not technically considered 'business casual'. This is when the Sucking In Style became my new brestest friend.
So now right on schedule at 11:30am everyday the milk train comes, and I have to grab my newly adored breastpump and head out. For those of you who have mercifully not ever had to deal with one of these things, it is roughly the size shape and weight of a cellular phone from 1983 so tromping around the halls with this chiropractor's dream of a bag is hardly subtle. It is however more subtle than a soaked shirt, so yay for that?
This routine continues at roughly 3 1/2 hour intervals, schedule providing. Let me clarify - the NEED arises every 3 1/2 hours regardless - my ability to do anything about it is what gets messed with. And past 4 1/2 hours the pressure valves start to kick in. So there IS a window but it's a small one, and one that is fairly non-negotiable. If I could negotiate with my rack, believe me, it would be a different world.
This compressed time frame has resulted in several of the more unexpected ripple effects, among them, me leaving meetings early, cause the boobs were done WELL before the agenda was. Higher on the things I thought I'd never do list, during all day off site team training events, I've slunk out to my car, plugged the MilkMaster into the cigarette lighter and took my top off in the backseat. And really, you know your life has changed radically when its a boob appliance that's getting to second base in the backseat of your car.

Goooooood MORNING! Or it was anyway....

See, I got Sleep, with a capitol 'S'. Any night that includes a chunk of sleep greater than 3 and 1/2 hours is considered a good night. If a good night includes *2* chunks of sleep greater than 3 and 1/2 hours, it will be followed by a good morning. Which was what I was having. Note use of past tense...
Many things were contributing to the good morning-ness, beyond even the sleep. I'd had the presence of mind/time/energy to switch my wallet and phone from my weekend diaper bag to my weekday working drone purse (how terribly symbolic), so I wasn't going to get 1/2 way to work and realize I would be foraging for leftover conference room food for lunch and/or getting arrested for driving without a license.
I'd also prewashed a bottle so I'd have SOMEthing to leave with the sitter to feed the Infant from - so she'd get to eat too. I'd managed to get showered, find underwear AND a bra I can wear, as well as an outfit I don't feel totally schumpy in. Mommy tummy is restricting my fashion options rather severely at the moment. That and being 4 years behind in laundry.
Speaking of laundry, I managed to get a load in without dripping detergent on myself or having to rewash a load from 4 days ago that had gone all stank. And, while in the basement, cleaned the kitty boxes *before* the inevitable editorial poop appeared on a landing or hall corner. All this and I was only running 30 minutes late. Truly a great morning.
And then......
The Sitter-In-Law had the Infant in arms feeding her a bottle - I was in full sherpa mode: boob pump, purse and computer bag all dangling off of me. I was just reaching for my lunch, the last step on the 'exit stage right' routine when..... YOOOOOOORK! The Infant represented apparently the entire 3 oz of formula she had just schlorped down. And, drama queen that she was, it went everywhere, including out of her nose. She was righteously offended. The expression while pitiful, was somewhat amusing - a mixture of 'oh, seriously, ew!' and 'what the f did I do to deserve THAT?!'. I would be lying if I didn't admit to freezing, with my hand on my lean cuisine lunch, and seriously debate just bolting. But one look at that confused and indignant little babyface and mommy guilt won. Plus I *like* my Sitter-In-Law. So I backed away from the the frozen pizza, de-sherp-ed and dove into decontamination. Since it was morning and the happy Infant side was in place vs. the later hours Sybil who shows up, she took it all with relatively good humor. Meaning her screams didn't actually shatter glass, and it only took 7 minutes to peal her off the ceiling after her onesie was removed.
Once the Infant was stripped and the worst of her hurl was hosed off of her, the Sitter-In-Law was kind enough to take over for the last of the dry down and redressing and I made a bolt for the door, now at least 45 minutes late. As I piled all my electronically laden saddlebags back on, I heard the MOST adorable coos and giggles from upstairs. Those sweet little sounds kept me smiling nearly 1/2 way to work. Which is when I realized I'd left my lunch at home. Le sigh.
Happy Monday to one and all!