Not on my Game

Upon discovering that my tired brain forgot my breast pump parts, I was faced with a decision: a) try to go the entire day without pumping, b) go buy pump parts, or c) go home, where the pump parts live.

Option B seems dumb, because I’m almost done breastfeeding. I suppose I could justify the purchase by saying “I’ll use these with the next kid”. But I really would rather save the money.

Option C means I’d have to pick up the kid from daycare and take him home with me, since driving back to daycare later this afternoon makes zero sense. But having him home with me while I’m working AND have no fuse seems like an irresponsible choice.

So Option A it is!

Once I arrived at that conclusion, I realized I might need breast pads for leaks. No problem, I thought. I put those in my shirt this morning, since I wanted to be prepared for the longer stretches between pumps anyway.

No, Carolyn. You did not put in breast pads. You put in breast pad. As in one, singular, solitary breast pad. Where is the other breast pad, you might wonder? Probably next to my sink, where I left it when my oblivious, tired self wandered away this morning to chase after the tiny tyrant.

Half protected and breasts bulging does not sound safe. ENTER: panty liners! I now have one stuck to the inside of my nursing tank, and I feel ridiculous. But also clever.

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