The breast pump…it speaks to me.
No, really.
Okay, so I’m lounging (well, as much as I can) in the sparsely furnished interview/testing room at my work, expressing the nourishment needed for my daughter and wondering how the hip-high scuff marks got on all four off-white walls. The rhythmic hum of the pump motor lulls me into a relaxed, peaceful state of mind as I try to picture waterfalls, swimming pools, playing with Baby B–all the things that will help the milk flow. I’m nearly in a state of light sleep when I hear it: “spooky bat, spooky bat, spooky bat.” My eyes fly open, not certain what just happened. The “talking” is coming from the breast pump for sure. “Spooky bat, spooky bat, spooky bat.” I’m amused, yet try to lean back and relax again. Next I hear: “Don’t do that, don’t do that, don’t do that.” I swear I can hear talking in my pump! Hidden messages, it seems. And they’re different every time.
I’ve also heard:
“That is a book. That is a book. That is a book.”
“That’s a good one. That’s a good one. That’s a good one.”
“He loves his house. He loves his house. He loves his house.”
“The magic knives. The magic knives. The magic knives.”
“I left it there. I left it there. I left it there.”
“A crazy day, a crazy day, a crazy day.”
Anyone worried about me yet?
Posted by andbabybmakesthree 
And Baby B Makes Three! 