While on mat leave with my first child, I fled the freezing cold Toronto winter and headed to Miami with my mom and sister (oh, and the baby). He was only six weeks old at the time and extremely portable, as newborns tend to me. So I schlepped him around with me everywhere: to the mall, the beach, out for fancy dinners in South Beach. He slept and ate and pooped. Easy, right?
One day, I brought him with me to the nail salon (I was long overdue for a manicure). My mom went first while my sister and I sipped lattes and read trashy magazines. The baby woke up screaming, which meant that he was hungry. I whipped out my boob and nursed the little guy, as I had already done in various airports, restaurants, change rooms, boutiques and boardwalks across the state.
I was certain he was done feeding – he had fallen asleep, after all – and so I took him off my breast, only to see a powerful stream of liquid shoot through the air and halfway across the room. My sister and I looked around to see where it was coming from (we were both getting spritzed – could it be a leak in the ceiling?).
It took us a good 10 seconds or so to realize that it was coming from ME! That’s right, my naked breast was shooting out leftover milk – at full force – across the nail salon, all over my baby’s face, and past him through the air and onto the floor. We were too busy dying – laughing uncontrollably, hyperventilating – to react in any sort of mature or adult way. Even my mom looked over, seeing that her girls were up to no good but smiling anyway because whatever it was, we were so clearly bonding (moms love that).
I’m sure I got a look from at least one of the estheticians – it would be impossible to miss the puddle of white milk settling onto the dark, wooden floor – but I was having too much fun to care. I pretended not to notice, casually wiped up the milk with a used napkin and continued reading, as if nothing had happened. Five and a half years later, my sis and I still crack up every time we see a woman nursing her newborn.