Back in the car, you wonder what happens when you get home. Will you a) Park, leave the baby in the car, sprint into the house, grab your money, sprint back to car within 35 seconds, jet back to Target or b) Park, remove baby from car, walk at a responsible pace into house, get money, walk back to car, re-position car seat, jet back to Target?
A. (According to Chuck): B! There are all sorts of crazy ladies who want to steal babies!
A. (According to me): B! Our dick neighbor is probably looking for a reason to call social services so that we stop parking in the street.
A. (According to Source Whose Identity is Protected): A! Leave her in the car. Don't tell anyone. Next time buy a house with an attached garage just for this reason.
The photo is a classic: My chest hooked up to the Steampunk Pumping Contraption with two bottles of fresh milk in the light of a new day. I'm not nude, I'm wearing a sweater over my shoulders and a nursing tank top. Not even a millimeter of breast is showing; There is no nip slippage.
I cackled after I took the selfie and texted it to CHRISSIE with the question "Would you like anything in your coffee?" Then, a few minutes later, I bettered it. I resent her the photo and this time wrote "Would you like me to save room for a little cream?"
She told me I could make fast cash on fetish websites and I told her I was going to turn it into a poster and sell it to Starbucks.
It was all so hilarious to me that I decided to post the photo on my blog.
Me: "... And so, in summary, I think it is okay to post this on my blog because you can't see anything and it is so funny."
Chuck: (Quietly looks at the photograph enlarged on a computer screen).
Me: "I mean, there isn't even a visible nipple."
Chuck: (Slowly) You have to think: 'Is there anyone I wouldn't want to see this.' Because by putting it on your blog, you're putting it in the face of everyone. They can choose not to look at it. But you are showing everyone."
Me: (Visualizing the faces of family, friends, enemies, celebrities, high school Spanish teacher, nuns) No. No, I am fine with everyone seeing this photo.
Me: Maybe I'll just write about how I almost posted the photo.
("Because, eventually this will be available on ..." he says.
"Netflix!" I chime.
"No, Amazon Prime," he says).
And it was weird, man. Our inside jokes have developed inside jokes and they are all buried under layers of communication ticks unfathomable to other adult humans (aside from, maybe, Chuck's best friend The Great Archivist).
I sensed this togetherness was going to be a problem when we encountered outsiders. Like the nurse at the Breastfeeding Clinic, who watched us verbally compute how much bottled breast milk we were supplementing with and finally had to stop us mid fervor to say:
"What does this all mean?"
It was a fast month and much was learned and there was an unyielding diaper rash and hours spent staring into the tiny face and there was only one time that I stood in the shower and cried because I just wanted to go for a walk, maybe have a bonfire -- AND A BEER! -- with my boyfriend without having to worry about whether it's convenient to yank, on demand, ole lefty out of my tank top.
At one point in the unyielding spin cycle of feeding-napping-diaper loading Chuck looked at me and said: "I feel like we're in a war together."
And that was, and continues to be, very true.