Absolutely Bananas: Seattle stay-at-home mom blog

Welcome to Motherhood, now say goodbye to your dignity

Here’s something you probably don’t know about me (and I’m sure when I’m done you’ll wish I’d kept it that way…)

When I was in the later stages of pregnancy, it became uncomfortably clear that I was going to be a lactation station; a milk-making machine; a feeding factory. Why? While most *normal* women begin the lactation process after the baby is born, my overachieving mammaries decided to kick it into high-gear early. Gee THANKS, girls.

So, I spent the last trimester well stocked with breast pads. Ahh, the joys of wearing a bra to bed at night. Is there anything quite like it?

This whole delightful process began while I was ‘away’. Not ‘away’ as in a few cities down, or a different state. No, ‘away’ as in Tokyo Japan. Two weeks in this fair city on business and I was ready to throw in the towel. But that’s another story.

Something that I learned about the Japanese culture while I was there is that it’s rather, ahem, uptight. I don’t mean to be rude, but I think anyone who lives there will agree that it’s true. Girls would run up to me giggling, asking if they could touch my belly. They’d never SEEN a pregnant woman before. Seems most women go into hiding the minute their belly protrudes even a tiny bit. Not me. I prefer to waltz around the city of Tokyo, two feet taller than the average citizen, with blond hair and a round belly, shoving my way into the subway trains and nearest sushi bar. Ah yes, I was a national event.

So anyway, uptight. Conservative. We wore suits to the office WITH pantyhose. Ugh! WHO wears pantyhose anymore? Turns out the Japanese women, that’s who.

And it was warm, oh so warm. One afternoon, I sat in a definitely NOT air conditioned conference room. I’d taken off my suit coat in an attempt to cool down, and was preparing for a rather important presentation to our entire Tokyo office. Focused, intent on what I would say, trying not to think about the heat.

That’s when it happened… I felt a distinct coolness in the region of my left breast. What could this be? Distractedly I looked down. And there, front and center (well, a bit left of center actually) was a rather large and very wet spot. And if you know anything about pale blue silk, you’ll know how distinctly PROMINENT this wet spot was. TA DA! HERE I AM! I’M A BOOBY AND I LEAK FLUID! It proudly announced to the world.

This was my first time. The “So that’s what these are for” moment that typically comes while you’re quiet at home or maybe in the hospital, newborn babe in arms. Never one to do things by the book, I get my motherly seepage IN THE MIDDLE OF A FREAKING TOKYO CONFERENCE ROOM with no baby in sight!

Now I know that this was a warning, a harbinger of what was to come. A sign of the new lows to which motherhood would take me. But I didn’t listen. I merely buttoned up my suit coat and went on with the meeting.

Four and a half years later, I’ve been reduced to the necessary lows that can only be understood by she who’s been peed and vomited on repeatedly, to the point of not really caring. Oh, what’s a little vomit. I’ll just wipe, wipe, wipe… and it’s all better! I’d change my clothes, but really I’m just too tired.

Welcome to motherhood, my left boob was trying to warn me, now say goodbye to your dignity.

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