Thirty years ago, I was pregnant with my son Nick and we were living in Regina, Saskatchewan where one of the great sporting activities was watching your tires go square when it's 40 below.
I loved being pregnant. I ate litres of Haagen Daz ice cream, didn't worry about fitting into my skinny jeans, and happily spent my days watching reruns of Dallas.
What I didn't love was what being preggers did to my boobs. As my stomach grew, so did they; they grew and grew and grew. They reminded me of a children's book I read once. It was called The Monster Cheese Which Ate Lake Louise.
I didn't mind them really, because finally they fulfilled a purpose and that was to fatten up my special little boy. Trouble was, they were too big and Nick lived in danger of being smothered to death. Him and the cats.
Anyway, I continued to persevere with the whole breastfeeding thing, and managed to give him nourishment for three or four months. I had milk, boy did I! I had so much of it that I began donating milk to the local hospital milk bank. Every couple of days, a volunteer from the Junior League would come by and pick up a few quarts, while I busily pumped and pumped. There was an endless supply.
I had to stick to a routine because if I didn't pump, I would feed Nick, then watch a steady stream of milk squirt across the room. I think I got my husband in the eye once.
I did this until the milk bank called me, and told me to stop. I had given them too much milk and they couldn't use it anymore.
Really, I was crushed.
Then I thought at least my gigantic boobs were useful, if only for a short time.
But they were also a cause for humiliation.
My husband worked at the time for a Saskatchewan Cabinet Minister, Eric Berntson, who eventually became Senator Berntson, then disgraced former Senator Berntson, then jailbird Eric.
I met the good Senator for the first time while I was nursing. He smiled at me, shook my hand, then turned to my husband and said, "Your wife is lovely. And a real good milker, too."
I'm glad he went to jail.
And now, a message from our sponsors. (Warning, not appropriate for younger viewers.)
I loved being pregnant. I ate litres of Haagen Daz ice cream, didn't worry about fitting into my skinny jeans, and happily spent my days watching reruns of Dallas.
What I didn't love was what being preggers did to my boobs. As my stomach grew, so did they; they grew and grew and grew. They reminded me of a children's book I read once. It was called The Monster Cheese Which Ate Lake Louise.
I didn't mind them really, because finally they fulfilled a purpose and that was to fatten up my special little boy. Trouble was, they were too big and Nick lived in danger of being smothered to death. Him and the cats.
Anyway, I continued to persevere with the whole breastfeeding thing, and managed to give him nourishment for three or four months. I had milk, boy did I! I had so much of it that I began donating milk to the local hospital milk bank. Every couple of days, a volunteer from the Junior League would come by and pick up a few quarts, while I busily pumped and pumped. There was an endless supply.
I had to stick to a routine because if I didn't pump, I would feed Nick, then watch a steady stream of milk squirt across the room. I think I got my husband in the eye once.
I did this until the milk bank called me, and told me to stop. I had given them too much milk and they couldn't use it anymore.
Really, I was crushed.
Then I thought at least my gigantic boobs were useful, if only for a short time.
But they were also a cause for humiliation.
My husband worked at the time for a Saskatchewan Cabinet Minister, Eric Berntson, who eventually became Senator Berntson, then disgraced former Senator Berntson, then jailbird Eric.
I met the good Senator for the first time while I was nursing. He smiled at me, shook my hand, then turned to my husband and said, "Your wife is lovely. And a real good milker, too."
I'm glad he went to jail.
And now, a message from our sponsors. (Warning, not appropriate for younger viewers.)
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