Last night I sank to a new low in my motherhood experience.
A friend of mine has graciously allowed me to use her home for the remainder of my stay in Ghana. It has done A WORLD of difference for my countenance. My father also offered to watch the girls for the next two days to give me some free time. Last night was my first night without them, and I confess, I wasn’t quite sure to do with my time. So I came home and did what any woman who suddenly finds herself devoid of her brood: I watched Nigerian dramas with the house-help -Perpetual, a really sweet girl of about 20 – and ate the least nutritious meal we could conjure up – a fried egg, salty corned beef stew on rice with a side of Indomie.
By the time 11 pm rolled around and we had been satisfactorily amused by dramadies like “The Return of the Snake Girl: Part 4”, my breasts began to ache and throb. Against, my better judgment, I had allowed my father to keep the baby, even though I knew I’d have to nurse her. I helplessly watched breast milk flood the front of my dress and drip onto my friends decorative silk pillows. I was now paying the price for my ‘freedom’.
There are 2 things I should have never left Atlanta without: My nursing pads, and my pump. I can’t give you a proper reason for their absence amongst my luggage. I sat in the living room ruefully brooding over my predicament. Finally, I could take no more and announced I was going off to bed.
“Good night, Perpetual,” I said.
“Good night, ma!” she replied with a grin.
I grimly went into the bedroom, contemplating how I was going to pass the night with rock hard, leaky boobs. I undressed and looked in the mirror. My mammaries were MASSIVE. They were droopy as well. In fact, they sat square on my belly, elongated by liquid they were ferrying about.
Wait a tic, I thought. If my breasts are long enough to sit on my belly, then surely they are long enough to reach my lips!
I’d watched my daughter Liya hungrily gulp down tummy fulls of breastmilk. It must be pretty tasty stuff, by my imagination. Add to that, a contestant on America’s Next Top Model used to “recycle” her breast milk by pumping it and drinking it. She was away from her infant to compete on the show, and she said it tasted like light soy milk.
I sat on the edge of the bed, naked from the waist up, looking at my reflection in a 2 foot high mirror on the dressing table in front of me. I lifted my right breast and began to drink.
My eyes widened in disbelief.
I ran to the sink to spit out Nature’s elixir.
Oh. My. GAWD!
How could any child drink this stuff? Was it that bad? Is this what corned beef tastes like in lactose form? Ugh.
Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done about it. I HAD to get relief for my breasts. For the next 8 minutes, I woefully sat on the edge of the bed, sucking and spitting out the substance I’ve fed all 4 of my kids with. The combination of the heat in Ghana and my elevated core temperature attributed to the anxiety I was experiencing caused me to sweat uncontrollably. I vividly recalled the last episode of Family Guy that I saw before I left Atlanta. Brian and Stewie had gotten locked in a bank vault, where Stewie coerced Brian into eating the poo from his diaper. He then declared later that he had made Brian his b*tch.
I had just made myself my own b*tch.
Run and tell that. Homeboy.