Milk Maiden

(11th July)

I woke up late and coming down with a cold, and pumped after my morning meditation. Deep down I can sense my breasts begin to stir, to talk incoherently in their dreams and wonder sleepily what time it is. In the afternoon I pumped again. This time when I removed the pump from my left breast there was the tiniest half-drop of white fluid coming from my nipple. Somewhat excited, I rang my supervisor to tell her, and sent the Boy a rather blurry picture taken on my mobile phone camera. He asked what it tasted like, and though it was too small an amount to really swill around my mouth I tell him I think that it was sort of sweet? Not sure if this impression came from experience, expectation, or both, but it seemed right somehow. (Anyway, I told him, if you play your cards right you’ll get to try it for yourself.) Down at the ocean, I watched a big yellow full moon rise and sparkle across the water and felt that delcious sense of knowing just what you have when you have it. At the next pumping, quite possibly my last for the day, I noticed my left nipple exuding a small amount of clear fluid. True, this is not lactation as such yet, and it may well be all the liquid I squeeze out for quite a while. All the same, these are encouraging developments! Think this week I will buy some cream for my nipples, already looking slightly traumatised, and perhaps some nursing tea. The current plan is to pump as much as possible for the next fortnight and reassess my progress. Maybe I will try motillium if nothing new is happening. And I need to find somewhere to pump at Uni. I’m not overly concerned about being seen from a privacy perspective as such, although sometimes one does just want to get on with doing what one needs to do without becoming a public education campaign EVERY time. And I can see this happening if I should pump, well-meaning women making small talk about children and me feeling obliged to explain the whole story and… sometimes this is okay, even fun, but not once or twice every day I am at work. The unit needs a power supply too, and is not exactly quiet, so my shared office space is not very appropriate. The women’s room might be an option, but is very easy to see into from the hallway. Perhaps I could hide in the corner? Oh dear, this is all beginning to sound like so many accounts told by breastfeeding mothers— possibly I should invest in a large shawl for me and my pump?