A Tale of Two Bottles

This is most certainly one for the baby book.

Making a small withdrawl from the spousal (time) savings account, I managed to get a weekend away with a group of ten girls late January of this year. The one condition being that I take #4, who was 3 months old, and recovering from RSV. Not exactly my idea of a weekend of R & R, but one kid is better than four, and I'll take whatever I can get, particularly when the one kid sleeps a lot and can't talk back.

So, walking pneumonia (#3), RSV (#4), a couple of snow days (#1 & #2), a sixth birthday party, and my husband's extended business trip in my rear view mirror, I headed down to the coast. Thankfully, when we arrived at the ferry to our final destination, the rest of the ladies met my car, and immediately handed me a margarita, which I chugged. They know me so well.

Thankfully, I am not the only one who has a tot in tow. One other friend has brought her infant son, 10 days older than mine. This is nice, but we have to keep the babies separated, as mine is recovering from RSV and this is the one time that it's not nice to share. Even better still, she brought her breast pump. We are both nursing, and in an attempt to be responsible mothers, our plan was to "pump and dump" if (by if, I mean when) we drank too much. After the first night, I had a blow-out in my pump valve and couldn't get any suction. God forbid I go on a girls weekend and not drink, so she let me share her pump. That's a true friend.

The weekend proceeds with minimal drama. No small feat with ten type-A women (each in their own unique and endearing way) under the same roof, on an island, in the winter, with only two golf carts for transportation (ten women and two infants). I headed out while the baby was sleeping, to the island store to pick up a few last minute items for the evening. I'd left a bottle of milk in the fridge, and given directions to one of the ladies to keep an ear open for his cry, as he'd probably be waking soon and would be hungry.

On my way back home I received a frantic phone call from the house saying that they baby had woken up and had been fed...the wrong bottle. Was I mad? Did I care? What would Mark say?

They were very concerned. I laughed hysterically.

What they didn't know is that they were talking to a someone who, along with college friends, had concocted a white Russian made with breast milk (not mine) and gave it to a (another) friend as a shot. Yes, this was (too) many years after our graduation. Yes, we should have acted with a bit more maturity. Yes, he knew that it was not made with the regular type of dairy product. It takes a bit more than a breast milk swap to gross me out.

Apparently, sometime between the sunset glamour shots and happy hour, the wrong bottle was grabbed from the refrigerator. Even better still, is that my husband's cousin was feeding him when the mistake was identified...and continued to give him the remaining 3 ounces of the bottle. Apparently, it much have been some good milk as he did not want to give that bottle up, and upon finishing it, fixed his gaze on his and pined for the (empty) bottle sitting on the counter until I got home. Seriously, they took pictures of him, staring longingly at that empty bottle. If I can find it, I'll post it here.

Ironically, when my friend and I had both learned that we were pregnant, I forwarded to her an article about how the "latest thing" in California was to have playgroups among nursing moms and co-nurse each others babies. Now, I am all about milk banks, and the wet nurses who fed lots of babies throughout history, but this idea seemed, well like something that would come out of California. Not interested. That's what I get for laughing at crazy Californians.

Tell me, how different do you think it tasted? Is is like coke vs. pepsi or sprite vs. 7-up? Not that I'm gearing up to perform an independent, double-blind taste test or anything. I was just curious.

"...there was a brotherhood between people who had fed from the same breast, a kinship that not even time could break." The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini