"Don't cry over spilled milk."

I am breastfeeding Abigail so every day after the 5th period bell I haul my trusty breast pump down to the co-ed staff bathroom. Some of the other teachers call it The Taj Mahal due to its spacious interior. FAAAABULOUS.

Tuesday I carted down my gear, pulled my chair (that I stole from the library and stash in the corner of the bathroom) over to the outlet, and plug in. I get all set up and pull out my cell. I usually text whoever is watching Abbi during this 20 minute session. It is either that or stare awkwardly into the mirror (next to the outlet), the grimy floor, or the throne itself.

I texted my mom. I wave my phone around in the air since that is the only way I can get one bar of service in the concrete box in the middle of the cornfield. I text my husband, wave my phone. I text my sister, wave my phone... and CRASH... SPLASH.

I notice warm wetness running down my leg and a slight change in pitch in my pumping machine. I look at the grimy ground and I see that the bottle has come detached from the suction cup pumper. The bottle is on the ground surrounded by puddling breast milk--- liquid gold all over the floor. I sit, stunned for a good 20 seconds before I realize that in addition to all the milk on the floor, my pumper is continuing to spray breast milk from my right boob all over my lap. FML.


Whoever coined the phrase "Don't cry over spilled milk" was NOT a lactating mother!