come, let me clutch thee
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Whaddyaknow, yesterday the university parking police came through with a parking spot for me, Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, from 2.30–4.30. Hurray for competent and persuasive admin persons!
My boundless delight at this concession may seem OTT, especially when it only gains me an extra 20-30 minutes per lecturing stint, but 20 minutes is a long time when you are clutching a thrashing miniature fell beast from whom the boobie has been taken away. And sure, yes, Just pump!, and then, tra-la-la! you can go out for as long as you like! (Incidentally, if you want to set my 'I'm trying really hard not to punch you in the face' hormones a-squirtin', any pronouncement beginning with 'Just' or 'All you do' should do the trick.) It ain't always that easy. Stress levels, generally exacerbated by such dumbass ideas as taking on lecturing contracts when you have an exclusively breastfed small baby, affect breastfeeding. As was brought home to me just before the last Rebs gig a few weeks back when, despite the fact that the girls were primed and ready to pump, I was unable to express more than a pitiful dribble, chiefly because it was Arsenic Hour and Becca was running on 'Sell me on Trademe' levels of hellhound. I went out anyway (I'm that kind of mother. And OK, we had reserves in the freezer) and when I got back at the end of the night, relaxed after a several hours of childfree fiddle-playing while jumping up and down sweating profusely and shouting 'Oy!', I was able to siphon off a brimming bottleful, despite being dehydrated from the aforementioned evening's activities. So in summary: don't stress me out because then you are starving my secondborn.
In other news, the secondborn has gone from boggling at the world to attempting to grab it and stuff it in her mouth.
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