So my parents weren't comfortable going to London alone so it was decided that I would accompany them. I toyed with the idea of taking baby with us but then I remembered how the other day there was so much diaper poop leakage she was basically swimming in it. Probably not the best scenario when you're on the go.
It would be my first time away from my daughter for such a long period of time. I was actually ok with this. My boobs on the other hand, felt differently.
See, when you think about the baby boob relationship it seems simple: baby needs boobs. This is true. What's also true is that the boobs need baby. Otherwise boobs are going to explode. It's a reciprocal relationship. One needs to be filled, the other emptied. Without each other there is imbalance and suffering.
Enter the breast pump.
There's something scandalous about pumping breast milk. To encourage let down (releasing of milk) it's suggested that you think about your baby, going so far as looking at her picture and smelling pieces of her clothing as you pump...
Anyways I had already been expressing milk so I wasn't worried she'd go hungry. However the thought of taking along the giant breast pump with it's long tentacle like tubing and trying to use it in London bathrooms didn't seem appealing.
So I went out and bought a handheld one. It only pumped one boob at a time but it was small and light. When I got home I realized it took triple A batteries. Only three of them.
Those were my choices. Heavy and clunky but fast? Or small, and discreet but very slow? I opted for the later.
The second obstacle I had was my dad's foot. It always happens that when car-used-to suburbanites visit me in Paris they have issues with all the walking. My parents fall into this category and a month into their visit my dad had developed severe pain on his achilles heel. When I sugguested he take it easy he responded that it needed to be excercised to get better.
Two days before London he was visibly limping.
He assured me he was ok but I know better than to try and navigate my way around London on the tube going down as far as 58.5 meters deep least there be ecalator problems with aging parents with foot problems so I booked the Big Bus. Not the cheapest option but I was ready to throw money at this impromptu London day trip.
That night Husband made us a dinner of savory crepes as a send off. I got sick and spent the good part of my night in the toilet.
Armed with quick acting ibuprofen (for my dad), breast pump, and a baguette (in case I couldn't stomache any real food) we headed to London bright and early.
On the train we were seated two by two and face to face. Traveling with three people is an odd number and I wondered who would be the lucky person who would be seated with us and across from my mom. It was a guy. A big guy.
He squeezed into the seat next to me and the window and awkwardly placed his long legs in between my mom's who obliviously was unaccomodating to this giant man. He tried to sleep despite my parents talking loudly in front of him.
I tried to sleep as well until I started to sense a lot of movement in front of me. My mom was shifting around.
What is it? I inquired.
I dropped my pill, she replied as she slide her hand under her butt trying to check her seat.
Maybe it fell on the ground suggested my dad before he got on all fours to check. The man woke up. Sorry, I said explaining the situation. In response he got up and took all his belongings with him.
I don't think he's coming back, I remarked.
All the better, said my mom.
Found it! said my dad shortly after, pill in his hand.
We arrived in London and my mom took twenty something pictures in between getting off the train and the exit to the station (Make sure you get the clock so we can remember what time we arrived! she demanded).
I decided I needed a coffee for what I assumed would be a very long day.
It would be my first time away from my daughter for such a long period of time. I was actually ok with this. My boobs on the other hand, felt differently.
See, when you think about the baby boob relationship it seems simple: baby needs boobs. This is true. What's also true is that the boobs need baby. Otherwise boobs are going to explode. It's a reciprocal relationship. One needs to be filled, the other emptied. Without each other there is imbalance and suffering.
Enter the breast pump.
There's something scandalous about pumping breast milk. To encourage let down (releasing of milk) it's suggested that you think about your baby, going so far as looking at her picture and smelling pieces of her clothing as you pump...
Anyways I had already been expressing milk so I wasn't worried she'd go hungry. However the thought of taking along the giant breast pump with it's long tentacle like tubing and trying to use it in London bathrooms didn't seem appealing.
So I went out and bought a handheld one. It only pumped one boob at a time but it was small and light. When I got home I realized it took triple A batteries. Only three of them.
Those were my choices. Heavy and clunky but fast? Or small, and discreet but very slow? I opted for the later.
The second obstacle I had was my dad's foot. It always happens that when car-used-to suburbanites visit me in Paris they have issues with all the walking. My parents fall into this category and a month into their visit my dad had developed severe pain on his achilles heel. When I sugguested he take it easy he responded that it needed to be excercised to get better.
Two days before London he was visibly limping.
He assured me he was ok but I know better than to try and navigate my way around London on the tube going down as far as 58.5 meters deep least there be ecalator problems with aging parents with foot problems so I booked the Big Bus. Not the cheapest option but I was ready to throw money at this impromptu London day trip.
That night Husband made us a dinner of savory crepes as a send off. I got sick and spent the good part of my night in the toilet.
Armed with quick acting ibuprofen (for my dad), breast pump, and a baguette (in case I couldn't stomache any real food) we headed to London bright and early.
On the train we were seated two by two and face to face. Traveling with three people is an odd number and I wondered who would be the lucky person who would be seated with us and across from my mom. It was a guy. A big guy.
He squeezed into the seat next to me and the window and awkwardly placed his long legs in between my mom's who obliviously was unaccomodating to this giant man. He tried to sleep despite my parents talking loudly in front of him.
I tried to sleep as well until I started to sense a lot of movement in front of me. My mom was shifting around.
What is it? I inquired.
I dropped my pill, she replied as she slide her hand under her butt trying to check her seat.
Maybe it fell on the ground suggested my dad before he got on all fours to check. The man woke up. Sorry, I said explaining the situation. In response he got up and took all his belongings with him.
I don't think he's coming back, I remarked.
All the better, said my mom.
Found it! said my dad shortly after, pill in his hand.
We arrived in London and my mom took twenty something pictures in between getting off the train and the exit to the station (Make sure you get the clock so we can remember what time we arrived! she demanded).
I decided I needed a coffee for what I assumed would be a very long day.
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