Y'all? I Am a Working Mother

It was fine.

I was fine.

Bea was fine.

I worked. I remembered how to talk. I remembered my audience. I even got a few laughs. A fellow teacher said to me, "I got a chance to observe your class and I noticed everyone was really engaged and seemed to be enjoying themselves." And I was all, "Oh hey, thanks. Have you seen my boobs? They make milk."

Okay, not really. But I did engage several people in awkward conversations about my breast woes ("How are you?" "Fine, but my breasts are slightly engorged." "Oh. Um. What do you do about that?"), then I came home and shared the love with my tweeps on accident. I thought I was direct messaging, but instead I announced to 500 or so people (mostly woman named "Brittany" who "luv to sux") my dilemmas about walking back and forth to feed Bea the old fashioned way versus pumping. So since everyone else has already heard, may I share with you?

It's a 15 minute walk down a smoggy six lane thoroughfare (Figueroa, for the L.A.-familiar), over the 110 and under the 10. It will be in the 80s every day between now and October (L.A.'s summers are usually curiously late) and I'm a Sweaty Betty. In short, walking over to breastfeed Bea is really inconvenient. And when I got there? She wasn't that hungry. She humored me with a nibble, but wasn't really into it.

There is a pumping room on campus. It's the locker room of the gym. Here's my relationship with the gym: there's a dining hall across the way where I can suck down tacos while watching skinny bitches treading mills with the aims of looking different from me. Seriously. I bite the taco. *Crunch* Eyes lock. They master steps. *Crunch* They up the incline. *Crunch* It's a strange ritual. And let me tell you something about 20-year-old sorority girls at USC: they don't eat tacos unless they're laced with cocaine and ipecac. (I kid! I've known a lot of wonderful USC sorority girls for reals. I'm just old and bitter.)

Anyway, I can whip out my boobs in the locker room and have my milk slurped into bottles for Baby Bea or I can walk half a mile each way through the heat and car exhaust and feed her myself. Despite my moaning and groaning, both options are ultimately fine with me and Bea. I just need to stop whining and work it out.

First world problems, right? Because today was a joy. I made a room full of frightened 18-year-olds attending their very first college class laugh and then I came home and delighted Bea with a singing and clapping routine (it goes Oh no Baby Bea/you're so sweet and fancy/I love you and you love me/because we're a silly little family). Life is good.

Truly. Life is really good.

jjk