by Daniela Syrovy
Just a few weeks ago my old roommate had her bachlorette party at Tattoo Rock Parlour so I arranged for my husband to take care of the baby and I set out determined to have a rip-roaring time.

Getting dressed I looked at myself in the mirror and thought –not bad. I’m rocking a vintage shirt with sparkly silver lettering that says, “Better than ever”, old school moccasin knee high boots and a slim fitting fuchsia skirt. I’m officially ready for my first night on the town with out baby.

Last minute touch ups on my makeup and I’m looking like my old self again—I could be in university. I could be dancing on the bar tonight; I could be lining up shots for the cute boys at the table next to us; I could be starting a congo line. Only one small difference—I’m carrying an oversized purse big enough to hold my small cooler and my breast pump. Where and when I plan to pump I haven’t figured that part out yet—no biggie I think –I’m determined to have a good time. A few hours into the festivities I’m thinking I’m not the only one in here whose had a few drinks, I’m not the only one in here wearing knee high boots and rocking a wicked do, but I sure as hell am the only one at the bar with a breast pump stashed in my purse!

My boobs swell up and cry out to be pumped. So right after dinner and before dancing I duck into the washroom and do the deed. For sure the women in the stalls next to me are thinking I’m using a vibrator because the pump makes a soft humming sound and the battery operated motor purrs similar to other electronic devices. Ten minutes later I’m done. I pack the milk in the cooler, wash the pump and run back upstairs with my newly emptied boobs. I feel great and as the night goes on I’m feeling more and more like a wicked schoolgirl skipping class.

I’m accidentally rubbing butts with the guy at the table next to us and after twenty minutes of accidents, he turns around to face me. He looks a bit ticked off so I’m thinking he’s going to tell me how obnoxious my ass is and could I move over just a little bit please. Instead he says, “I’ve got to tell you this because we’ve been bumping asses all night—you’ve got a fine one.” Then he walks away. Perfect! I’ve still got it. There is nothing like a random stranger complimenting your ass to boost your ego for the night. Feeling like a rock star I climb on stage with the bride-to-be and we pump our fists to “Paradise City”, we bump and grind to “Push It”, we sing at the top of our lungs to “Summer of 69”. I’m starting to sweat up a storm and am in serious need of a drink, but first a bathroom break.

I head downstairs to the washroom and notice that every women coming out of the washroom is staring at my chest. They’re staring because they love my “Better than ever” shirt! I’m so cool. I’ve got this silly grin on my face and after a few minutes in line, a sweet girl says to me, “Um I think you spilled a drink on your shirt.” I look down and am mortified to find two giant, perfectly circular stains right over my nipples. My milk! It’s leaked out and here I was thinking that all the stares and points while I was on stage were because of my wicked dance moves.

I flash back to my glorious moments on stage and recall random people in the crowd yelling, “Whooo hoo!” “Hell ya!” and “Check her out!” followed by high-fiving and/or hysterical laughter. I’m positive that no one at the bar assumes it’s breast milk, but they definitely think I’m some kind of freak who likes to wet my nipples before dancing on stage. I douse water all over my shirt and make like I had some kind of drink disaster. The show must go on. That’s the beauty of being a mama—you master the art of improvising pretty quickly. I dance up a storm until just before last call and no one’s the wiser. I’m not one to let a little milk stand in the way of my fun. So to all the new milfs and milfs to be—don’t stop rocking out. Just take my advice and never ever leave home without your breast pads. Forget diamonds—the pads are a girl’s breastfriend.