I really wanted to post some super cute video of Ashley in the bathtub, but I am having trouble uploading it. So all you get is this photo of cutiepants and her tired mom.
I know a lot of you have been jones'ing for some new pics, but I have been so busy trying to balance my work and home life, that I barely have time to even wash my hair on a regular basis. If I do try to wash it, I end up singing "Itsy Bitsy Spider" at the top of my lungs to try and squeak a few more seconds of contentment out of my daughter. This song is also interspersed with "Mommy's coming! One more minute!"
I am sure my neighbors want to shoot themselves.
Anyway, I have REALLY wanted to blog about my very first overnight away from Ashley two weeks ago! Chris and I took a trip to Vegas for our friend's joint Bachelorette/Bachelor party. He went out on Friday night and I flew out on Saturday. I really thought I was going to be more nervous about leaving her, but since Gigi was watching her, I felt totally at ease. She was even sweet enough to send me camera photos every few hours so that I could get a sneek peak at what they were up to ... it was wonderful.
So, I get to the airport for my flight and I put all my bags on the conveyer belt at the security checkpoint. I only had a gym bag because I was just going for the one night. I walk through the metal detector and am waiting for my bag and my shoes to come out and I see that the two TSA agents are busily staring at the screen, whispering and pointing.
One of the guys says, "Ma'am, what kind of game do you have in here?"
"Excuse me?" I ask.
"In your bag, what kind of game is this?"
"Well, I...um..." I started stammering.
About this time, a woman TSA agent walks over and slugs the guy in the arm and says, "That's her breastpump!"
Needless to say, I headed straight for the airport bar.
The flight was great. Had another drink with my friend Christa, chatted about our plans for the night and leafed through a People magazine. It was almost exactly like old times! We landed, headed to the hotel, got a coffee. Then we decided to swing over to the Shops at Caesar's for some quick retail therapy. The trip was off to a great start! (Minus the whole embarrassment at the TSA checkpoint.)
Suddenly, we realize we are going to be late if we don't get back. Of course, getting a taxi was a nightmare so by the time we got back to the hotel, we basically had 30 minutes before we had to meet everyone for dinner. We quickly changed our clothes (I wore what I thought was a dress, but apparently they showed it on "The View" a few days later with a pair of black pants) and we dashed out the door to another taxi.
Now, I am going to warn you that what you are going to read next is a little graphic... It may be more than you ever wished to know about me, so you may just want to skip over the next paragraph and meet up with the rest of the readers at the end when I talk about how great it was to get home and give Ashley a hug. Seriously ....
...Oh, you're still here, are you? OK, but don't say I didn't warn you.
So we are having our fine dinner and enjoying ourselves and I order myself a nice martini. It goes down quite nicely, so I think to myself, why not have another? I am just going to pull the old, "pump and dump" action anyway! Wait... pump and dump. Pump ... I DIDN'T PUMP BEFORE I LEFT!? Panic sets in ... it is 9:45PM and I haven't pumped since 11AM. This is bad people. At that time I was pumping every 4 hours. Oh, well, I think ... just order another cocktail and hopefully your body will adapt to the situation. The cocktail arrives and then another one, I am minding my own business, and I go to reach for something ... what have I spilled, I think to myself? I wipe off my dress. Another sip of martini. That is so weird. It must be dripping on me. Maybe I should slow down. I don't really feel that tipsy, but clearly I am spilling on myself OH MY GOD, I AM LEAKING! I look down at my dress...you cannot tell, but it is clearly wet to the touch. My friend Christa looks at me and sees panic on my face. "What is wrong with you?" she asks. "Umm...I think my boobs are leaking." "Oh no," she says. "You need to express yourself." I think to myself, this really isn't a time for psychotherapy, Lady. I am dripping like nobody's business right now. I say to her, "You know, I don't really have anything to say about it other than it is uncomfortable and making me self-concious." She looked at me like I had a hole in my head. "No," she said, "You need to EXPRESS yourself." Dear God, she meant go milk myself!! I just started stammering, "No, no no...I am sure it will be fine." She just gave me a pitiful look and said, "It's going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better. It's your only hope." I am sorry, but milking myself in the bathroom of the hip restaurant in the Bellagio was just not an option for my ego. I ordered another martini and went to the restroom to pad my bra with paper towels. When I returned to the table, Christa said, "Did you do it?" "NO! I didn't do it and I'm not doing it so let's just finish up these drinks and go." Well, we finished up all right, but then we headed to one of the hottest new clubs in Vegas called The Bank. Me and my leaking breasts. By this time it was 12am and I was dying. My boobs were absolutely engorged and I felt like they were going to explode. The girls were dancing the night away on the dancefloor and they did not look ready to leave. There was only one thing to do ... express myself. I won't go into details, but next time you are waiting in line to use the restroom and you see someone facing the wrong way, they might not be getting sick ... they might just be taking some time to express themselves.
IF YOU SKIPPED DOWN TO AVOID THE STORY, PLEASE REJOIN THE GROUP HERE:
The next day, we hopped back on the plane to come home and I ran in the door to see my happy little girl safe and sound in Gigi's arms.
The End.
