Well, not really oil. I am not, after all, an automobile or a tank. Even if I feel like one.
Last night, I awoke to find my entire left bosom drenched in colostrum. Enough colostrum that the wet patch measured about 3" by 3". Now, in fairness, this isn't a shock. And it really isn't that big of a deal but at 3am, it sure as hell freaked me out, as I burrowed into my snug haven of sleep. I've been producing colostrum in thin drips and drabs since month 3.5. I know. About the same time I fit into that that size 38EE bra I had bought two weeks before. The production levels To the point where your father walked into the bathroom once to bring me something (he did this reluctantly, being English and all) whilst I lounged in a WARM (not hot, people. Relax. I have not hard boiled you, Fanglet. You are fine. In fact, you just hiccuped so I know you're in there) bath. But this is the first time I've ever produced enough to wake me up.
So now, I have a collection 1ml and 5 ml syringes to freeze some of this stuff in case you appear early (a suggestion from the lovely Elaine at the NCT breast-feeding hotline. I know, I know. . . wasn't so long ago I had the Information Commission and National Archives Advisory Service on my speed dial. Now, the we've added the breastfeeding hotline. I'm still not quite sure how that happened.) Going to by the syringes was actually quite amusing.
Envision this scene: a busy pharmacy on a Saturday in Wood Green. A Large pregnant woman who probably shouldn't be wearing leggins (but hey, who are you to judge?) and a skirt waddles up to the register.
'Hi. Do you um. . . do you sell empty syringes?'
'We do. Why do you need them?'
"Oh, it isn't for a drug habit or anything.' I smile nervously. Way to go, FA, way to go. Make her think you're not a freaking nut job. You have no drug habit. You haven't had a Galoise in months. MONTHS! You barely have 2 cups of coffee a day. 'I just need to express and freeze the colostrum I'm producing. I'm high risk for pre-term labor, so want to make sure we're prepared.'
The clerk blinks, and steps back, looking slightly uncomfortable. 'Uh. . . okay. Well, we do have syringes. I'll just. . . I'll get some for you.'
I leave with my syringes and saunter back out to the high street to go and buy some size 20 underpants. The clerk is still eying me nervously. Your Auntie W, who is with me, is trying so very, very hard not to laugh.