Janelle was looking forward to a mini break away from mummy duties. But when she failed to pack a breast pump, she found a very suck-cessful solution…
Gazing down at my baby's soft, blonde hair, a sense of contentment flowed through me. I was breastfeeding my fourth child, Georgia.
‘Over you go,’ I whispered, as
I shifted her gently to my other breast.
As she looked at me and smiled, I beamed back at my gorgeous girl.
I loved breastfeeding, forging that special bond between a mum and her baby.
I’d struggled to get the hang of it with my first baby, Ava, now nine.
‘It’s hard,’ I’d said to my hubby, Joshua.
I had introduced formula milk when Ava was two months, and by three months, I’d stopped breastfeeding completely.
But when Lilly was born four years later, I became more at ease and breastfed her for eight months.
Then I breastfed my son, JJ, for 18 months.
Now I’d been doing the same with Georgia for 15 months.
But Josh and I had been invited to my cousin's hen and stag parties. She and her fiancé were having a joint party for four nights in Puerto Rico.
‘I really want to go,’ I said
to Josh.
But we couldn’t take the kids.
Would I have to stop breastfeeding Georgia?
'What am I going to do?'
She would take a bottle — she wasn’t exclusively breastfed — but I didn’t want to give up our special closeness simply for a short break away.
‘I’ve got a solution,’ I said to Josh, holding up a breast pump triumphantly.
My plan was to take it with me on holiday to pump the milk from my breasts to ensure that they wouldn’t dry up.
And then I would go back home and be able to carry on breastfeeding Georgia, just the same as before.
Excitedly, I began to pack.
In the morning, we left our home in Boston, USA, to travel to Puerto Rico.
‘I’ll be back soon,’ I said to the children, kissing and hugging them.
Josh’s mum was looking after the kids and would be helped out by a babysitter, too.
‘Just the two of us,’ I said to Josh, snuggling up to him.
When we reached Puerto Rico, the tell-tale signs of my breasts becoming too full with milk started.
Time to get the pump out.
Unzipping the suitcase, I began to rummage inside for the pump. My hand rifled through pants, socks, T-shirts and shorts, but I couldn’t find it.
Sweeping through the case again, there was still no sign.
‘Can’t find it,’
I said to Josh.
I stood up and grabbed my handbag. Rapidly, I emptied everything out.
‘Nope, it’s not there either,’
I said.
My boobs were beginning to ache. But with a horrible feeling,
I realised I’d failed to pack the pump.
‘We need to buy one,’ I said urgently.
Quickly, we left the hotel to search for somewhere to buy one.
But the part of Puerto Rico where we were holidaying was on an island away from the main part, and there weren’t a lot of shops.
‘No, they haven’t got one,’ I panted to Josh, as I rushed past him out of one shop and dived into the next.
I gabbled to the shop assistant that I needed a breast pump, but she shook her head.
Into another shop I went, but again was met by a shaking of the head.
There wasn’t one breast pump to be had.
‘What am I going to do?’ I asked tearfully.
I needed to keep pumping to make sure my breasts kept filling up with milk.
Now I was fearful that my milk would dry up while we were away, and I’d no longer be able to feed Georgia myself by the time I returned home.
But there were some other options I could try.
Rushing back to the hotel,
I tried to make myself relax.
Perhaps self-expressing might work, I thought.
Pressing my thumb above the nipple, I gently prodded with my fingers below the nipple.
A small amount of milk surfaced, but I couldn’t coax out any more.
By now, my breasts were aching and becoming painful.
Maybe I need to relax more,
I thought.
Turning on the shower, I ran warm water over myself and tried again to self-express. A few drops, nothing more.
I looked down at my boobs. They were so engorged and uncomfortable, it was as if they were on fire.
There was only one thing for it. I called for Josh and told him what I needed him to do.
His mouth dropped in astonishment.
‘Can’t you do it yourself?’ he asked, baffled.
‘It’s not working,’ I said, exasperated.
I fetched a cup.
‘You can spit it into that,’ I said.
I was desperate to relieve my swollen breasts.
‘Suck,’ I commanded.
Instead of looking down on the downy, blonde hair of my baby girl being suckled, I was staring at the brown hair on Josh’s large head.
Yes, I was breastfeeding my husband!
Josh, bless him, didn’t want me to be in pain, so dutifully he began to suck.
And it was working! My husband was hitting the spot. The milk was coming out in a steady flow.
Wincing, he turned and spat the liquid into the cup.
'What does it taste of?'
Then he took up position again.
Suck, spit, suck, spit.
The pain began to subside.
‘You can do the other side now,’ I said, 10 minutes later.
Josh moved over.
‘Phew, that’s much better,’ I said, relieved.
A few hours later, we were sitting round the pool with my cousin and the other guests at their party. But the familiar ache appeared again.
‘Time to go back to the hotel room,’ I said to Josh.
I’d already explained to the other women what had happened and how Josh had stepped up in my hour of need, and they giggled as we headed off.
The pair of us went back to the room, did the necessary deed and soon rejoined the party.
Three times a day for the next three days, Josh sucked my breasts and spat out my milk.
‘What does it taste of?’ I asked, curiously.
‘Sweet, a bit like almonds,’ he replied.
On the fourth day, we switched to a different part of Puerto Rico.
I went shopping again on the hunt for my vital piece of equipment.
‘Got one,’
I said to Josh, waving a breast pump high in the air, as if I’d found the golden ticket.
‘Thank goodness,’
he replied.
But did I detect a slight flicker on his face when he said this? Was he secretly a little disappointed to be stood down from his duties?
Back home, Georgia snuggled up to me and we were soon back to our cosy feeding routine.
I told my followers on social media about the solution to my burning boobs dilemma.
Predictably, some were horrified. But others?
Man is living the dream, commented one.
Probably the best vacation ever for your husband, remarked another.
A few months later, I decided to see if Josh could remember the taste of my breast milk.
Hiding the contents of my milk, full fat milk, oat milk and almond milk in four containers, I gave him a straw to suck with this time.
He took a taste of them, and when he sucked up my milk, he grimaced.
‘That’s your breast milk,’ he said. ‘I’m positive.’
My hubby was correct! Clearly, the taste had made a not-so-nice imprint on his taste buds.
But I’m grateful that my gorgeous husband showed me the milk of human kindness when I desperately needed it!
Janelle McAloon, 32