Last Friday, during our crazy winter snowstorm, I got a text message from my good friend Kristen: I have an extra ticket to see Lady Gaga tonight—you want to come?
I gazed down at my three-day worn...err...seven-day worn baggy jogging pants. The ones with the ripped pockets and paint stained legs. Then I looked over to my active 11-month-old who was chasing the dog. Hmm—an excuse to leave the house, get dressed, and rock out to a musical legend? Let me think about it.
I had two hours to get ready, and Kristen informed me that we would be getting fully Gagad (this means—wearing a wig and anything glittery and awesome) *insert extreme excitement* The only thing better than showering and getting ready to go out, is showering and getting ready to go out...dressed up in COSTUME!
So I tucked my purple wig into my bag, and excitedly kissed my husband on the cheek, "Au revoir!" But before leaving the house, I quickly grabbed my breast-pump. Sigh. Yes, the reality of being a 30-year-old-concert-going-new-mama is that when your son still feeds every 2 hours all night long, you need to plan your partying accordingly.
I raced out the door, caught the train, and arrived in the city: ready. to. party.
I felt a bit like a 17 year-old who had gotten into her parents liquor cabinet as I raced down the street to my friend Kristen's house with a bottle of wine in tow. (And by 17, I mean 14. We started partying early in cow country, where I'm from.)
We consumed some wine, had a quick dinner, and then made our way over to the ACC. We were fully wigged, glittered, and ready to go.
Once we got to security—they asked to look in our bags.
I'm guessing that most of the other concert goers WEREN'T carrying a breast pump. Certainly they were going to wonder what type of bong I was transporting and would want to publicly examine it. In hindsight, I should have let them because that would have been a hilarious spectacle!
When it was our turn to cross through, I looked at the young security guard and said,
"Just so you know. I have a breast-pump in my bag."
"What's that for?" he was clearly confused and a little intrigued. Thinking it was something possibly awesome and sexual...
"It's to drain my boobs of milk. I'm still breastfeeding my son, and if I don't pump, my breasts will explode. So I needed to bring it."
"Oh. Okay." Awkward stumble as he steps backwards and ushers me forward.
Once inside, Kristen and I got a few drinks, and the bartender asked for our ID. Yep. That's right.
Purple wig = Fountain of Youth.
I proudly flashed him my drivers license, and just incase he wasn't good at math, I thought I'd help him out, "Yeah, as you can see. I'm actually 30. And I'm a mom. I have a son. And a breast-pump in my bag. But thank you for asking to see my ID. You just made my night."
If you're wondering if I actually said this, the answer is YES. You are welcome to party with me anytime. I promise to embarrass you with my brutal honesty (and breast-pump). Luckily Kristen is used to this behaviour, and barely batted a false eyelash.
We grabbed our drinks, headed into the concert and proceeded to make friends with the couple beside us as we rocked out to every single song with 100% enthusiasm.
Halfway through the concert, however, my breasts were starting to look like a botched implant surgery, and I knew it was time to pump. But I didn't want to miss anything. So I did what any good concert-going-mama would do. I draped my coat over myself, and I pumped while sitting in my seat.
Some people drink at concerts. Some people do drugs.
Well new mamas like me...we PUMP. I was rockin' out with my pump out, and I was having a great night!
It all came to a sobering end when on the GO train ride home I realized it was 1:30am and my son was going to be getting up in a mere 5 hours. I shuddered at the thought, and briefly closed my glittery eyelids...nearly falling asleep and missing my stop.
A perfect end to a perfect night.