A word about my breasts

oooh, I shudder to think of the Google searches that may lead here from that title.

I just sat here for half-an-hour pumping. For those of you who Googled here looking for erotica, I'm not talking about what you may be doing right now. No, rather I'm a working mom with a nursling at home who needs her momjuice, so I hook two horns to myself and milk away, softly mooing on occassion but passing on the cud. Despite a double-action electric pump with variable speeds and suction, I managed to get a measly 3.5 ounces. Not enough to feed her this morning. Must eat more oatmeal.

The annoying thing about this, besides a hungry child at home, is that I carry around immense mammary glands. I'm not talking about D-sized eye-poppers. No, go further up the alphabet. Much further up the alphabet. Let me put it this way - it was a memorable moment the first time someone noticed my very pregnant belly before staring at my chest. On a barely five-foot frame, they get in the way even more than you might expect. At a self-defense class I'm taking, my opponent, after bending me over while practicing her attack, couldn't knee me in the groin or stomach because my boobs got in the way. They are so frusteratingly large, that if I have to have them this size, I'd like some sort of silver lining. Like getting a decent stash from these bovine moments.