Monday, May 10, 2010

Working Girl (2)

Sometimes motherhood knows no bounds in it's ability to bring me to my knees. Literally.

Imagine this.

You're at some work function, it's the type of thing that features a sea of featureless faces and fancy graphics flying around giant screens, stage lighting, and funny but wince worthy videos. Anyone live in corporate land and know what I'm talking about?

So let's ignore that it doesn't make sense that I'm there. Let's just let that go for now. Let's just say that it's an old day job that came up and I'm happy to be there. 

Back to you. So you're there, the place is filled with thousands of people, but most of them are men. I'd say 80%. And before you go all 'Samantha' on me and think that the numbers sound good, I'll tell you that the actual numbers of the men you'd like to see their face is 10%. So the ratio isn't that special.

But the point of the above paragraph is that you're happy about it because there are never lines in the restrooms. Like at hockey events. And you go in and no one is there but in one stall you see a pair of black boots that are facing the wrong way. That's odd. And you hear a toilet repeatedly flushing, like back to back to back. And again. And these boots are there, the owner is squatting and time is passing but you don't hear anything. By now you expect to hear the telltale wretching of the night before gone wrong, but you don't hear that. Instead you just hear the tiny splish splish splash of tiny squirts of some petite liquid hitting the water.

Do you know what it is?

If you're a mom you're going to guess faster.

And if you guessed milk,
 you're right!

Silly me, I thought we were more or less weaned. Silly me I thought it was fine to go on this business trip without the pump. Silly me, I was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Leaning over the toilet is something I used to do alot when I drank too much. So my face too close to porcelain today was all too familiar. But there was something even more sad and pathetic about the grown woman squatting and squirting with vigor into a churning tank because the damn auto-flush function was in overdrive so I was occasionally getting splashed in the face thinking are you effin' kidding me with this!? all the while wondering what the nice lady who is always there to ensure that the place is super shiny is thinking as she paces by. Meanwhile I"ve GOT to get back in there to work but it's also critical I commit time to this activity I don't get a plugged duct or something horrifying.

And I so desperately miss the little creep who's fault this is. The physical pain is a helpful place to put the heartache I feel. I'm guessing the person who decided the dates of this event is a man and maybe not even a Dad because I had to fly away from the sweet little giant headed baby on Mother's day - before he or the sun even awoke. Which sucked.

But skulking past the bathroom lady 6 or 7 times today enduring her dirty looks and figuring out which of the 18 stalls the auto flush is mercifully broken and wondering what bladder trouble I needed to invent for my co-workers and trying desperately to find a pump but deciding that it was too expensive was how I spent my day. And I thought y'all might get a kick out of the story.

Looking a LOT like a porn star,

PS - I took these pictures yesterday as everyone prepared for the onslaught of people today. I think they perfectly captured how I felt after flying across the country away from my boy for the first time. I was so profoundly alone. These chairs and tables are lonely and beautiful little flowers.