Guest post: The Amazing Cindy Kane

Hello, Dear and Cherished Readers! You know I love you, right?

Of course you do–readers who rock this big know it in their bones. At least I hope so.

I hope you realize what joy and snark and light and inspiration you bring to my life. But the thing is, right now, I just can’t write.

So I’m having a surrogate do it today. She’s awesome. 

It’s weird…I NEED the funny right now but I can’t bring it. However, as Mama likes to say, “there’s more than one way to skin a cat.”

^

Okay, where did that sicko little idiom come from?  If you know, please let me in on the secret, because I’m perversely interested.

Anyways.

My friend Cindy is an author and a blogger and a stand-up comedian, and she can bring the funny. She also does not howl when you drag her along on a desperate hunt for lube in the Superama. Women like that are keepers. We need those women.

I sure do. And if the alleged 6-12 inches of snow descending on us right now comes to fruition, funny is a very good thing to have around. (Guess what, Minnesota? We’re re-gifting! Aren’t you excited?)

I also want to encourage you, if you know a new mommy or an old mommy or any mommy who could use a belly laugh this coming Mother’s Day (it’s May 12th, so mark the calendar), Cindy’s book is the perfect gift. Snatch it, kiss that momma and run. *details at the end of this post*

Much Love,

The Mole (aka: Kitch)

ps: give Cindy a warm welcome, would you? In the name of misplaced lube? xoxo

***

THE CAUTIONARY TALE OF A GIRL AND HER MEDELA

Raaa-ssss raaa-ssss raaa-ssss raaa-ssss raaa-ssss raaa-ssss raaa-ssss.

The other night I slipped away from our dinner party to pump. The baby had fallen asleep in someone else’s arms and since I obsessed regularly about a declining milk supply, it was time for a little one-on-one with my Medela. I left my husband with his family, raced up to the baby’s room, and closed the door. By the soft glow of the baby monitor I could see what a hole the room was. Onesies, pj’s, and little socks exploded out of the hamper. A leaning tower of diapers balanced atop a wastebasket because I couldn’t figure out how to work the Diaper Genie refills. Luckily, people lost interest in seeing the nursery when the baby wasn’t in it.

I sat down on the glider and put my big ol’ pump case on the ottoman. I pulled down the straps of my tank top and wrestled with the heavy nursing bra. My tremendous breasts plunged out. As a former B girl, double-Ds were a whole new experience. They had weight; if I went one way, they had the option to go the other. They didn’t disappear when I took off my bra, and they actually hurt when I ran down the stairs. I loved them. And I spent a great deal of time plotting how to keep them once the baby stopped nursing, even resolving to pump for the rest of my life.

I situated myself in the chair, stuffed my breasts into the cone-shaped shields, and turned on the pump. Raaa-ssss raaa-ssss raaa-ssss raaa-ssss raaa-ssss raaa-ssss raaa-ssss. The reviews claimed that this particular model felt “more like baby,” but they didn’t elaborate on the conducted research. They also neglected to note how many newborns sat still with their mouths wide open to measure for width and comfort. Or whose plastic-faced baby had a dial on its cheek to adjust the painful suction.

I started things slow, dial turned to 2, confident that business would soon conclude. I sat back and waited for letdown. I waited and waited until the sucking motion felt like it was starting to pull the skin off of my already battered nipples. I turned it up a few notches to 5. Raa-sss raa-sss raa-sss raa-sss raa-sss raa-sss raa-sss raa-sss raa-sss.

“Aaaaaaaaaaa!” My nipples were going to wind up in the collection container. Frustrated, I pushed the “one-touch letdown” button several times. Ow. Ow. Ow. Nothing. I thought that perhaps a little mental stimulation might help, so I flipped open the top of my microfiber shoulder bag. The Medela included a little plastic sleeve intended for a photograph of the child. I felt a little pervy doing this at first. I mean, do I put in a picture of the kid clothed or in a diaper? Naked? I settled on one of the baby screaming when she was hungry, which usually did the trick. But not tonight. So I adjusted the speed to 10. I’d never gone all the way with my Medela before. But I needed to get back to my husband’s family. To Grammy. Ra-ss ra-ss ra-ss ra-ss ra-ss ra-ss ra-ss ra-ss ra-ss ra-ss ra-ss ra-ss ra-ss.

“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God!” I cried out. And just as I reached for the “off” button, I felt my body swell. My breasts tingled and reached for the ultimate relief. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa . . .” I smiled in the dark. “Mmmmmmmmmmmmm . . .” Pain forgotten, I looked down at the white substance filling up the attached bottle. It promised to be at least an eight-ounce escapade. Everything was going to be okay.

And then I heard footsteps thumping up the stairs. I straightened my back and pulled my feet up on the glider so my knees would block the breast shields and the rest of my exposed chest. My husband opened the door. A screech of feedback rushed in with him, magnifying the noise of the pump at least ten times. Then the pumping noise was in stereo; I flipped off the Medela. My husband pointed the antenna of a baby monitor in my face.

“You left this on downstairs,” he said. I heard his voice in front of me and also through the receiver in his hands.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh no.

I gasped.

He reached beside me to turn off the base. Static filled the room. “Next time, you might want to bring this upstairs with you. Or just turn it off,” he said. He shut it down.

Silence.

“It was on the porch?” I whispered.

“No,” he said.

“Under the couch?”

“Nope.”

The hum of music and laughter slipped into the room. I dropped my head. I peered down at the collection cups. The milk had stopped and my breasts had shrunken away from the plastic shields. I put the containers on the floor. I would hurt later.

“Don’t . . . don’t tell me,” I said.

“Behind the coffee machine, on the counter.”

“Oh, God.”

“It took me a good minute to find it.”

“Oh, God.”

“Yeah, I think we’ve all heard enough of that tonight.” He reached down and offered me his hand. I turned away from him. I was not leaving the room.

“You have to,” he said. “This party was your idea.”

I stood and followed him out of the room. Maybe I could just keep going and leave the house when we reached the bottom of the stairs. He stopped short. I banged into him.

“What?” I said. “Why did you stop?”

He looked down at my massive breasts.

Seriously? I thought. Right now?

“You might want to,” he said, “you know . . .”

“No, I don’t know. What? What do you think I should do?”

He smiled. “Pull your shirt back up?”

Oh.

My nursing bra and tank top were sodden with milk, and hung from my chest like mud flaps. “I’ll . . . um,” I said. “I’ll be, um, down in . . .”

He wrapped me in a hug and kissed the top of my head. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel his chest beating with laughter. I gazed up at his face. He looked away. I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him as tightly as I could.

Keep laughing, I thought. He turned and went down the stairs. In the light of the hall I could see two wet spots on his shirt from where I’d rubbed my nipples against his chest.