The worst thing

Have I mentioned before that Eleanor has a "work schedule"? I just can't stomach the thought of putting my precious, perfect little pink princess (like that alliteration??) in day care. I seriously have nightmares about it that include giant man eating boogers and freckle-faced red-headed bullies. I can't even type about it. Anyway, because I can't stomach the thought of daycare, I had no option but to construct a meticulously designed system of care takers for the baby. Well, it's not so much meticulous as it is muddled, but it works. On Mondays she stays at home with Aunt Sarah, Tuesdays and Fridays belong to Grandma and she brings home the bacon with Mommy (me) on Wednesday and Thursday. Confused yet? I am!

But Eleanor's agenda is not the topic of today's post. The actual topic is the horror that is breastfeeding or breast pumping at work. EGADS -- it's a nightmare! Her schedule makes it a necessary evil, but I almost break out into hives just thinking about it. You should know that I work with all men; that's a large part of the problem right there. If I even so much as mention breastmilk, let alone show it to them in a container they all kinda cringe. But really it's the nudity that gets me. There is just no graceful way to latch a wiggly baby onto your exposed private parts.

I know, I know, I should be modern and carefree enough to unapologetically whip out my nipples and breastfeed anywhere anytime, but let's face it, I'm a coward. I believe in breastfeeding as necessary in public and I would be the first to cheer on any mama who sheds her bra to nourish her baby at the mall. Frankly, if just my tatas were giving the peep show I would probably be right there with her. My reservations, neigh my HORROR, comes from the thought that someone might accidentally glimpse...... my stomach. I'm serious, hear me out! I just had a baby so everything down there is all squishy and overlapping. And of course pregnant women in tanning beds are frowned upon so it's all pasty jiggly belly flesh. Add in my red stretch marks and I resemble a bloated hairless Bengal tiger -- it's not pretty.

After I had one or two nervous breakdowns when it came time to breastfeed E, the guys in my office clued in and made me a lactation spa. It was previously known as the spider corner due to the abundance of creepy crawly things that amassed over there, but they've since swept it out, put down a rug and hung what I fear might be a see-through curtain. Behind that thin, sheer vale, I can escape judgment and fear and let my mama milkers (and my muffin top hang out). Thanks guys!!