F is for . . . Festivaling like a mother

Before becoming a mom I imagined getting out of the house to be difficult because you have a tiny new human to care for. I thought leaving the baby in the care of someone while you go out into the adult world would be hard because a) you have to trust someone to care for your baby and b) you miss your baby terribly. Now as the mom of an almost seven month old, I could make a list for every letter of the alphabet (and probably will) for why leaving home is difficult. Currently in the top five is pumping.

My dad drove down from Northern California to babysit my boy while my sister and I went to a music festival here in San Diego called KAABOO. (No I have no idea what that means or stands for.) So half the hardship of leaving home was taken care of, right? Now I would just have to miss my baby, put on my big girl pants (e.g. maternity jeans) and leave the house.

Once upon a time, in my nonpregnant life, I wrote a blog post for my friends that listed all the necessary items for a music festival, mostly things that are multipurpose and miniature like travel wipes that double as bathroom tissue, antibacterial spray that smells pretty, tinted chapstick with SPF, and a blush stick that is also a lip stain. A breast pump however, is neither multipurpose and is definitely not miniature.

My mom invested a lot of time into researching and then buying me a travel single breast pump with a rechargeable battery pack. I tried it on numerous occasions and never managed to get a drop. Some reviews have blamed this on having breasts to big to be efficiently stimulated by the battery powered option. (I cannot type that with a straight face, sorry.) I do not know the reason, but I am still renting the hospital grade, costs-two-grand-if-you-want-to-buy-it pump because the good ole free-from-insurance-company pump doesn’t do it for me. I’ve got prude boobs I suppose, they don’t put out for anything less than the real thing.

This means packing up my free-from-insurance-company pump and getting enough drops out that my boobs do not threaten to explode, get backed up, turn to concrete and then, well, let me save the details of clogged ducts for a separate discussion that you can choose to read.

My festival pack was not a cute faux leather with fringe over the shoulder bag that is part of the festival uniform, nor was it a galactic fanny pack, but a backpack I borrowed from a friend, because I need to disperse the weight of the breast pump and accessories across both shoulders. (I cannot complain because my sister carried this pack for most of the festival.) Included in the backpack was a second bra, without underwire, in case I started to get clogged ducts due to the underwire in the sports bra I was sporting. Yup, you read that right. These girls need a sports bra if they are expected to hold up in public.

Also needed: arch support bands around my feet and gel inserts in my Vans to help alleviate the pain of the plantar fasciitis I recently added to my list of random postpartum symptoms. My pelvic floor therapist recommended Spanx to help my hip stability, and as much as I appreciate a medical diagnoses that supports shapewear, it is a little too hot in September to wear Spanx under jeans so I kept them in my backpack.

Once into the gates of the festival, it was just like old times. I got a cup of chilled rose, and listened to a DJ I have never heard of while comfortably judging skinny twenty-somethings in mom jean shorts with their bums hanging out. Immediateley energized by live music, we wandered the festival grounds, watching art installations being started or finished, stopped for a free Kombucha tasting and picked up Kettle Chips samples while debating which gourmet food truck we would return to later. When we felt a little too hot, my sister and I went into the air-conditioned art tent to wine taste.

This is when things changed. I had been at the festival for over an hour. Add in the drive up there and the walk into the festival grounds, and it was time to pump. At ComicCon in July and more recently a Padres game at Petco Park, I came across a mom friendly space to breastfeed or pump, so just in case I checked with a women working at the venue. No luck. Public toilets it was.

I understand that I made the choice to leave home within the first year of my child’s life. Yes, this is my choice and I choose my choice, but while sitting on four seat covers on a public toilet trying to balance a pumping tray on my knees and twist the suction and speed dials on the panel with my pinky, while pressing the phalanges on my boobs without spilling milk all over myself, I felt a little sorry for myself. This is not a highlight of motherhood.

I listened to the chatter of drunk girls, concerned friends, women who REALLY needed to go, and complaints of toilet paper running low, but in the end no one’s conversations within ear shot lasted long enough to entertain me. I emerged from my restroom stall sweaty and dismayed, clutching my bottles and pump parts to my chest, and proceeded to rinse them in the sink. (I mean, these bottles with be washed, disinfected and live in my steam sanitizer, but I at least didn’t sour milk on top of this.)

A woman washing her hands next to me called me out and said, “Now that is a dedicated mama!” I laughed and explained how motherhood is incredible, but that my current activity wasn’t making it on a top ten list. “This is mama’s big day out, and you gotta do what you gotta do right?”

I mentioned my darling seven month at home with grandpa and gained an audience of two more of her mom friends.

They all nodded in recognition of how crazy hard it is to get out of the house as a new mom.

They reminded me that nothing is more important than that little baby boy and to just take it all in.

By this time I had rinsed, dried and packed everything back into little bags in my backpack and started to head back out to meet my sister. “The real world is still out there, and will be when you’re ready to come back out,” the woman said. Then she leaned over and hugged me. Like a real hug. “But it’s so hard in the beginning,” she said, “So hard.”

I almost started crying right there in the bathroom. I guess sometimes “I need a hug” is written all over your face. And when it is, leave it to a mom to come and make it better.

#festival #pumping