Tuesday morning I was invited to a meeting about a very exciting project we’ve got coming up at work. It was about an hour away from our office, but four of us, including two men who are my bosses, drove together, so it was a nice break from the routine (Jen, did you ever think you’d hear me say that going to a meeting in Cincinnati was a nice break? Yeah, me either. Time must be healing the wounds embedded in us by our former employer).
Anyway, it was a great meeting and everything, but it lasted a lot longer than I had expected. I had fed Sam at about 6:00 a.m. and by the time the meeting was adjourned, it was after noon.
Yeah, you know where I’m going with this, right?
Needless to say we were starving, so we stopped at Panera for lunch. As I stood in line, I happened to notice a feeling of dampness on my arm as it brushed my shirt. I glanced down at my lovely, very delicate white shirt, and discovered I was participating in my very own wet t-shirt contest.
Apparently it takes right at six hours and 15 minutes for milk to soak through nursing pads, a padded bra and a camisole.
With my purse strategically placed, I went to the restroom, but there was nothing that could be done for my shirt. I felt like a real winner as I stuck the toilet paper into my saturated bra.
I tried to make intelligent conversation and not look too crazy as I ate with one arm across my chest. I scrunched down, hoping the spot would be below the level of the table. I moved my plate to it covered the evidence. I did everything I could think of to hide the wet spot, but I was positive that my co-workers were just barely containing their laughter.
After an excruitating lunch and a very contorted ride back to the office, I was finally able to pump. By then it had been like eight hours since I had fed Sam. I think I might have set the world record on expressing milk, actually.
I spent the rest of the afternoon assuming that I was the laughingstock of the office and just didn’t know it yet. I eventually couldn’t take the suspense any more and finally asked one of the guys I was with if he had noticed anything “odd” about me at lunch. I figured that, as the father of five children, he should be pretty used to situations like that, but fortunately he told me he had only noticed that I didn’t eat my vegetables.
And that is what I choose to believe.
