Summary

A mother recounts her experience of pumping breastmilk while visiting her husband's college friend, Kenny, at Michigan State University, and the humorous and nonchalant reactions it elicited.

Abstract

The narrative describes a young family's visit to Michigan State University, where the mother, who had recently given birth, needs to pump breastmilk while her husband's friend, Kenny, watches with a mix of curiosity and impatience. The mother, who is both a graduate and a former water polo athlete, reflects on her connection to the university and her new role as a mother. Despite initial awkwardness and Kenny's impatience, she successfully pumps milk, showcasing her maternal dedication and the natural, yet often privatized, process of breastfeeding and pumping. The story is shared with humor and a candid perspective on postpartum life, emphasizing the mother's comfort with her body and the changes it has undergone.

Opinions

The author expresses a casual and humorous attitude towards breast pumping, likening it to the agricultural history of MSU.
Kenny's initial fascination with the pumping process quickly turns to boredom, highlighting a common lack of understanding of the time and effort involved in breastfeeding.
The author is amused and slightly exasperated by Kenny's suggestion to taste her breastmilk, drawing a clear boundary regarding her breastmilk's purpose.
The author uses the experience to reflect on the changes in her life and body since becoming a mother, with a tone of acceptance and empowerment.
The author finds the title optimizer's suggestion of a provocative title amusing and acknowledges the clickbait nature of online content, while maintaining a lighthearted view of her story.

MSU DAIRY STORE

I Absolutely Loved Letting my Husband’s Friend Watch me Pump

Kenny was titillated

“Go Green, Go WHITE.” (Photo by Jaye Haych on Unsplash)

Joe and I were college kids who’d gotten knocked up. We’d graduated, had a baby, and moved 1,000 miles away.

But as they say, “you can’t go home again.”

We all went back to visit Michigan State when our son, John, was 10 weeks old. We stayed with Kenny — Joe’s bestie and water polo buddy — in a beer-soaked house on Hagadorn Rd.

John was a breastfeeding champ and already had grown plenty of baby chub. But Joe and I were going out for a few hours. Grandma was babysitting — I’d need to pump my breastmilk. I had to keep up my production if I wanted John to end up with more chins and delicious leg rolls.

“Weee-ooooh, weeeeeee-oooooooooh…” I planned to switch on the cute, yellow Medela pump I’d gotten secondhand from our swim coach’s wife. She’d saved us at least $100. Was Mrs. H’s gift in compliance with the NCAA’s rules for student-athletes? I wondered. Oh yeah, I’d never been a recruit in the first place!

And I’d quit the team long before Mrs. H had given me her baby gear.

I dreaded leaving John. It seemed like they’d only just cut the umbilical cord and already I was going somewhere without him! We’d been joined at the boob-mouth interface for his whole, little life.

But we were heading to a noisy college bar in East Lansing; it was no place for a child under 12, let alone an infant.

I’m a teetotaler and lifelong loather of cigarette smoke, but we were certain to come back reeking of the bar’s sour residues. I’d need to shower before popping baby to boob once more. I also knew that after a few hours of not breastfeeding, my boobies would be as hard as the footballs at the MSU-Minnesota game that Saturday.

It was time to pump, pump, …pump, pump, pump — victory for MSU!

Kenny sat down next to me on his basement’s faux-leather couch.

Was it cold in here? I thought.

I unsnapped my nursing bra with one hand and stuffed my boobs into the pump flanges. We both watched the battery-operated, yellow pump alternate away at my itty bitty titties — I, with indifference. The flanges were small, but they half-swallowed my udders with each rhythmic pull. Left, right, left, right.

Mooo. *Yawn*

I told Kenny it was fine for him to watch me cow it up. Our school hadn’t formerly been called the Michigan Agricultural College for nothing!

It didn’t occur to me to be embarrassed, having had my baby daddy watch me poop while birthing our son just ten weeks prior. I’d lost the ability to care about anything but the three B’s — baby, boyfriend, and breast output.

Learning to Love My Saggy Boobies After Babies

This mom’s still got it going on

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Kenny’s mind was blown.

Never before had he seen human nipples stretch so far!

But his initial enthusiasm for my lactation evaporated within thirty seconds of the first draws. “This is gonna take FOREVER,” he rolled his eyes, as he watched the tiniest vapors of liquid gold form a condensate on the plastic bottles. Apparently, Kenny wasn’t used to waiting for someone to juice her boobs before skipping off to the bar.

I hadn’t even had letdown yet and already he was annoyed!

But it wasn’t long before Kenny was impressed again. As a healthy, 21-year-old mamacita, I had excellent production. Soon I was holding two full, 4-oz bottles.

“Damn,” he said. “I wonder what it tastes like.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes.

LMAO. I drew the line at giving my hard-earned breastmilk to a 22-year-old man with a five o’clock shadow — one who was about to chase it down with Killian’s Irish Red.

The only guy who was going to be spitting up my milk that night was my burping baby.

If Kenny wanted to try some of the ol’ mammary brew he could head over to the MSU Dairy Store for some ice cream!

Grandma wasn’t gonna give that to him in a sterile bottle, though.

Me, Joe, and John, in 2004, at our favorite “cow college” (Author’s Photo)

Author’s Note: The provocative title of this piece was written with the help of a title optimizer, which turned it into bona fide smut. Pump on, Sparty!

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