Ever wonder what it feels like to be a dairy cow? Wonder no more. Just buy yourself a breast pump.
While packaging experts over at Medela and Avent have done wonders to accessorize them (hey, mine’s hidden in a backpack for crying out loud), breast pumps are really just dairy farms in a bag. I should know I hook up with to one multiple times a day.
In fact, I spend so much time hooked up to my pump that I’m starting to resent that it hasn’t taken me out for a drink or complemented my shoes. Fat chance of that. Pumpie, as I like to refer to him–ur–it is a selfish SOB. He takes and takes and never gives.
I’m actually starting to feel a little uncomfortable with our relationship, and in more ways than one. Our interactions have become increasingly painful, and P Daddy (another of his pet names) always seems to be around–showing up at my office, following me upstairs at night, and sitting perched on my nightstand each morning. I’m concerned that his presence could forever drive a wedge between me and my hubby who immediately leaves the room any time “that thing” and I even look at each other.
Though I’m afraid of a major “let down,” I fear Pumpie’s days are numbered.