breastmilk or bombs: which scares you more?

Traveling with Ruby is so much different than traveling alone. When she was younger it was hard for various reasons (as you may have read here or here).

For those who don't know, liquids cannot be carried on to the plane unless it is specifically for the baby. As stated on the TSA website:
"You are encouraged to travel with only as much formula, breast milk, or juice in your carry-on needed to reach your destination."


So when I was flying out here to Oregon (to finally meet up with Camm), I looked in my mom's fridge and realized there was still 3/4 of a gallon of whole milk. Being the cheapskate that I am, I was NOT about to just let it go to waste (that's like $2.00 that I'd be dumping down the drain!). But I was flying in an airplane, so how was I going to get 3/4 gallons of milk to Oregon?

Even though this wasn't formula, breast milk or juice, this is the only thing my baby is allowed to drink (per the doctor's orders at her 1 year check-up), I correctly assumed it would be fine. The problem that I saw was how could I convince them that I needed 3/4 of a gallon for a 1.5 hour non stop flight (not exactly "only enough...to reach my destination"). That's where my creativity had to come in. 
I filled up every water bottle container that I could with milk and put it in a little mini-cooler that I brought with me. When I got to security I gave them this sob-spiel about how I am a paranoid mom that is afraid that our flight will get cancelled and we'll end up spending the night in some random town...yadayadayada. And actually, that part worked pretty easily. (Funny thing is I'm not actually like that at all. I can't even imagine how could I be stuck in a town that has no stores to buy milk? But I can see the headline now)

The TSA man had to take the milk aside to do some testing. Now, I assume that this man has been trained to work with bombs, guns, knives--you know--dangerous stuff.
While he was testing it some spilled on his hand. All of the sudden I noticed he looked really uncomfortable-uncomfortable to the point that I think he actually looked scared. He turned to me and asked,
"Uh, is this store bought?"
I was so confused by the question, "uh, yeah. I didn't milk my own cow if that's what you're asking."
Immediately relief flooded his face and he said, "No, I just thought it was something else."
I began to understand, "Oh, you thought it was breastmilk?"
He stuttered for a second, "Uh..yeah, I did."
I guess to the TSA man he thinks like this:

Anyone else think boobs are scarier than bombs? Because somehow I'm just not seeing it...

the trail of milk

So before Ruby came along, Camm and I attended a few breastfeeding classes.

“Don’t worry,” the lactation specialists always assure us, “Even if you are working, you can easily pump milk and get the nutrition your baby needs.”

“I can do this,” I thought. My cousin gave me a pump to use and I was on my way to successful breastfeeding.

When Ruby came, breastfeeding turned out to be slightly more difficult than I had imagined. Sore nipples, spilling milk out creating wet shirts in public places, clogged ducts, engorgement (anyone who has breastfed knows). Luckily, I produced a lot of milk (close to the amount of a cow), so pumping should have been easy enough.

Then one day…

On Fridays I go to campus all day long. It is the day Camm does not have to work or go to school so I can actually get some work done. The building where I have my grad lab does not have any sort of mother-nursing room. So, I realized I needed to walk across campus to pump the milk. On my way out of the grad lab, my bag (it is one I got in junior high when backpacks were less cool, and one strapped shoulder bags were cool) broke. The one strap on it ripped and it went tumbling to the floor. “No problem,” I thought to myself as I got out the stapler, “I can take care of this.” So, I put about a million staples in it and felt like I was ready to go.  (Just as a little visual: that bag was on my shoulder with a million books in it and I had a backpack on with all of the pumping gear). I walked through the hallway, down the two flights of stairs and out the door. “POP...POP… POP…POP…POP.” Apparently the staples weren’t enough to carry a bag full of text books and other papers. One by one, each of the carefully managed staples came out and my bag fell to the pavement. I picked it up and carried it in my arms (still with the backpack full of gear on my back).

I arrived in the mother’s nursing lounge and began to pump. This was the easy part (despite all of the regular discomfort associated with feeling like I’m hooked to a cow-pump). The bottle was full, and I was ready to go. WAIT. I had forgotten to bring a lid for the bottle that was now full of breast milk. ACK! Well, I realized I had to go lidless. I put the back pack on, had a huge bag with the staples sticking out everywhere in one hand and carried the milk in the other. Struggling to keep my balance, I walked back to the grad lab, spilling milk all over my hand and leaving a trail across campus as I went. When I finally arrived in the grad lab I was covered in milk and exhausted from carrying a bag full of books one handed across campus.

I am no longer breastfeeding.