Admission of the night: I do not own an electric breast pump. Well, not yet anyway. I'm in talks with my insurance company and we'll see. Meanwhile I use this:
It's not bad for the little I use it for. I usually pump once a day unless my boobs are overfull (and wow.. where did all the guys reading my blog go?). I'm always home with the babe and he absolutely refuses, on pain of dismemberment, to use a bottle so I'm storing up for sippy cups in a few months while I'm in school. I hope.
Why am I mentioning all this? Because of my darling husband. My understanding husband who would never ever compare me to a milk cow. Right?
He walked in me while I was pumping in the kitchen. Why was I in the kitchen? I have no fucking idea. Attemping to use a manual pump while standing is so far from brilliant it cannot even see brilliant in the distance. I was holding the pump with one hand and pumping the little handle with the other and I really really needed a third hand for some boob squeezing. So! In walks the husband who offered to help.
This is where you should all yell "Nooooo! Don't let him!"
So there we are and he's squeezing my poor boob when he looks at me and goes, "C'mon Bessie! That's not enough for the cereal!"
He is never ever ever helping me again. I'm honestly not sure if he will ever look at my breasts and not think about cows again. On a side note, "Moooooooooooooooooo!"