newbelly2002
03-22-2003, 12:46 PM
We've all had them. Those moments when what grace and elegance you have left in your person goes flying headfirst and screaming out the window.
Mine was yesterday.
Although most of my friends know that I love ice cream, I don't think anyone--including me--knew the depths of this affair until yesterday. A pair of friends, DH and myself (with 2 babies in tow) went out to a Gelataria in Potsdamer Platz for ice cream. DS slept in his stroller while the other baby hapily munched on a cookie. I look at the menu (which are, in my defense, meant to entice. THey are full color, gorgeous and sexy photosgraphs of each extravengant sundae)although I'm pretty sure I know what I want. I've been dreaming all day about this one luscious sundae--but I look just in case. I decide on the "Bailey's Cup" (my original decision), but only after looking at each and every sundae. I can't stop thinking about how good it will taste as I wait for the waitress to come for the order. Then I feel like something on my shirt. I look down on my brand-new olive green T-shirt (one with an actual shape no less!)to see that my left breast is soaked. Not a couple of drips, but the entire thing is dark and dripping. Mortified, I stand up and run to the lady's room. I hand express about 5 minutes worth of milk into the toliet (oh the injustice), pad my bra with toilet paper (so now I'm lopsided as well as stained) and stand in the microscopically small sink space beneath the hand dryer directing it toward my boob. Other women--in heels, furs, etc--just shake their heads.
Now, I have to say that BF has been hard for me. I have made so little milk from the beginning on. Over the course of 8 months I have used only 1/2 of a small box of nursing pads (maybe 20 total). I have never leaked during the day--not even in the beginning.
It used to take a little more than just ice cream. Sheesh.
Paula
Mine was yesterday.
Although most of my friends know that I love ice cream, I don't think anyone--including me--knew the depths of this affair until yesterday. A pair of friends, DH and myself (with 2 babies in tow) went out to a Gelataria in Potsdamer Platz for ice cream. DS slept in his stroller while the other baby hapily munched on a cookie. I look at the menu (which are, in my defense, meant to entice. THey are full color, gorgeous and sexy photosgraphs of each extravengant sundae)although I'm pretty sure I know what I want. I've been dreaming all day about this one luscious sundae--but I look just in case. I decide on the "Bailey's Cup" (my original decision), but only after looking at each and every sundae. I can't stop thinking about how good it will taste as I wait for the waitress to come for the order. Then I feel like something on my shirt. I look down on my brand-new olive green T-shirt (one with an actual shape no less!)to see that my left breast is soaked. Not a couple of drips, but the entire thing is dark and dripping. Mortified, I stand up and run to the lady's room. I hand express about 5 minutes worth of milk into the toliet (oh the injustice), pad my bra with toilet paper (so now I'm lopsided as well as stained) and stand in the microscopically small sink space beneath the hand dryer directing it toward my boob. Other women--in heels, furs, etc--just shake their heads.
Now, I have to say that BF has been hard for me. I have made so little milk from the beginning on. Over the course of 8 months I have used only 1/2 of a small box of nursing pads (maybe 20 total). I have never leaked during the day--not even in the beginning.
It used to take a little more than just ice cream. Sheesh.
Paula