There I am. In my bathroom. Expressing. Milk. From. My. Boobs. Funnel-like cones attached to said boobs, pump pistons workin' on the chain gang, and milk flowing like the salmon of Capistrano.
I'm not sure my nipples have and will ever forgive me.
Travis is downstairs giving Marley* a bottle. She is not taking to the bottle at all. But good Asian and German stock breeds determination. Practice, practice, practice.
I'm upstairs in a zone. The rhythmic sound of the pump reminds me a little of this really cool house track that I used to love to dance to in college...
"Oh no. She finished it," I hear Travis say from downstairs.
The milk receptacles (plastic bags) are just about full. Why defrost another bag?
"WAIT! I'M COMING!"
I run downstairs, tits a-blazin', and fists wrapped around the bags of magic elixir that are going to render my baby immune to...everything.
Without missing a beat, Travis grabs one of the bags. Ok, maybe the sight of me topless, running full-speed down the stairs with two bags of milk, and cone imprints around my boobs gives him slight pause.
But he knows his mission. He dumps the milk in the bottle, screws the top back on, and...aaaaah...Marley continues her tentative love affair with The Rubber Nipple.
I walked back upstairs, victorious, and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
Not bad for a cow.
*Marley was about four months old when the topless/bags of milk/running down the stairs incident occurred.
The Gratitude Experiment
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