In case you missed it, I'm a proud mama of a 9-month-old boy. He was born in September, and after eight wonderful weeks at home snuggling my newborn, I returned to work with my new sidekick, Le Pump. The room I used for pumping was across from the kitchen/work room, so I would clean up and store my milk in there when I was finished. The door to the room remained open at all times, as students used it for various purposes. So, I knew that it was only a matter of time before a kid came in and asked what I was doing.
Cutie 1 and Cutie 2 (both 4th graders) walked into the room right after I had finished pumping. They greeted me with hugs and as they began to make small talk, Cutie 1 noticed the milk sitting on the counter, along with a variety of weird-looking pump accessories. "What are you doing?" she asked. Seeing as she is the second-oldest of five children, I assumed she was familiar with breastfeeding so I explained that I had just finished making milk for my baby and had to clean things before I put them away. Her simple reply, "oh," let me know that at the very least, she had never seen or heard of a pump before. I continued cleaning while she waited in silence, obviously trying to process what I had said. "Wait, what?" she asked 30 seconds later. I tried to quickly think of a delicate way to explain without really explaining and told her what was already obvious - when I couldn't be at home to feed my son, I had to continue making milk for him so he could use it the next time I left the house. "Ohhhh, yeah... I get it," she said, squinting her eyes and staring into space.
Cutie 2 had been listening to our awkward little conversation and decided to contribute, "yeah, my babysitter nurses her baby too." She then grabbed Cutie 1's arm, trying to drag her out to recess, but curiosity (and confusion) had taken hold; Cutie 1 could not be redirected.
"So why do you make the milk here?
"Because he still needs milk while I'm gone, so I have to keep making it."
"Why can't you wait until you get home?"
"Because when I get home, I'll feed him myself and I can save this milk for him to drink from a bottle tomorrow."
"Wait, what?"
At that point, I realized there was no going back.
"Cutie 1, I nurse my son. That means all his milk comes from me, so when he's not with me, I have to collect milk for him." I continued with a brief explanation that the pump does that for me. I was met with a blank stare, yet again. I turned back to the sink, praying she would stop asking questions. She did not.
"Soooo..... how do you make the milk again?"
In a desperate attempt to avoid saying any word that refers to breasts, I beat around the bush with a discussion of mammals. Yes, I even compared myself to a cow, which, if we're being honest here, is not unlike how I often feel. Choosing the scientific approach proved to be of no more help as it did nothing to answer her burning question - where the milk was coming from. As I braced myself for the moment I was going to have to say "breasts" to my 4th grade student, Cutie 2 came to my rescue. As she whispered a play-by-play of breastfeeding into Cutie 1's ears, I heard the word boobs. And all I could think was:
1. This is the second time I've had to deal with the word boobs this week.
2. My students are talking about my boobs.
3. I need to call Cutie 1's parents.
Should you ever find yourself in a similar scenario, I now have a statement that I believe covers the bases in an appropriate and most definitely less-awkward way:
"Ask your mom."
Cutie 1 and Cutie 2 (both 4th graders) walked into the room right after I had finished pumping. They greeted me with hugs and as they began to make small talk, Cutie 1 noticed the milk sitting on the counter, along with a variety of weird-looking pump accessories. "What are you doing?" she asked. Seeing as she is the second-oldest of five children, I assumed she was familiar with breastfeeding so I explained that I had just finished making milk for my baby and had to clean things before I put them away. Her simple reply, "oh," let me know that at the very least, she had never seen or heard of a pump before. I continued cleaning while she waited in silence, obviously trying to process what I had said. "Wait, what?" she asked 30 seconds later. I tried to quickly think of a delicate way to explain without really explaining and told her what was already obvious - when I couldn't be at home to feed my son, I had to continue making milk for him so he could use it the next time I left the house. "Ohhhh, yeah... I get it," she said, squinting her eyes and staring into space.
Cutie 2 had been listening to our awkward little conversation and decided to contribute, "yeah, my babysitter nurses her baby too." She then grabbed Cutie 1's arm, trying to drag her out to recess, but curiosity (and confusion) had taken hold; Cutie 1 could not be redirected.
"So why do you make the milk here?
"Because he still needs milk while I'm gone, so I have to keep making it."
"Why can't you wait until you get home?"
"Because when I get home, I'll feed him myself and I can save this milk for him to drink from a bottle tomorrow."
"Wait, what?"
At that point, I realized there was no going back.
"Cutie 1, I nurse my son. That means all his milk comes from me, so when he's not with me, I have to collect milk for him." I continued with a brief explanation that the pump does that for me. I was met with a blank stare, yet again. I turned back to the sink, praying she would stop asking questions. She did not.
"Soooo..... how do you make the milk again?"
In a desperate attempt to avoid saying any word that refers to breasts, I beat around the bush with a discussion of mammals. Yes, I even compared myself to a cow, which, if we're being honest here, is not unlike how I often feel. Choosing the scientific approach proved to be of no more help as it did nothing to answer her burning question - where the milk was coming from. As I braced myself for the moment I was going to have to say "breasts" to my 4th grade student, Cutie 2 came to my rescue. As she whispered a play-by-play of breastfeeding into Cutie 1's ears, I heard the word boobs. And all I could think was:
1. This is the second time I've had to deal with the word boobs this week.
2. My students are talking about my boobs.
3. I need to call Cutie 1's parents.
Should you ever find yourself in a similar scenario, I now have a statement that I believe covers the bases in an appropriate and most definitely less-awkward way:
"Ask your mom."