OMG WTF?!

Thursday was Milkbaby's 1st birthday.  It started off pretty well, with some present opening before breakfast, and then a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday upon arrival at creche.  I went to work, sat at my desk and breathed a sigh of relief (largely for having made it to work looking somewhat decent and without snot on my shoulder).  I did a bit of work and thought about what kind of cake Milkbaby might like.

At about 11am, I thought "oo, sore boob".  By 11.30, said sore-boob was impinging on my ability to type, so I took matters into my own hands (haha), and relieved sore-boob of some milk.  Easy.  (The hard part was flushing it - that stuff's like liquid gold.)

Shortly thereafter I started feeling a bit vomity.  I thought I'd better take myself on a field trip to the work sick bay.   And so by about lunchtime I was a shivering, feverish, nauseous wreck, huddled in fetal position under neon lights in the sick bay.  All I could think was OMG WTF?!  And "how am I going to bake a cake now?"

The sore-boob had become a red-hot-poker-boob.  I knew what this was.  You guessed it: MASTITIS.

Or maybe you didn't and you're thinking "huh?  I thought only cows got mastitis."

Poor, poor cows.

Fairy Godsister swept in and efficiently took me to the doctor, picked up my prescription, tucked me up in bed, picked up the DH and Milkbaby, played with Milkbaby, helped get him fed and ready for bed, and then cooked dinner.

Women are renowned multi-taskers, and motherhood hones your multi-tasking skills.  Breastfeeding is an opportune time for a little multi-tasking: your nursling is relatively still and you have at least one hand free.  My best breastfeeding multi-task is being able to change a nappy while breastfeeding - IN THE DARK.  I did not expect, however, to ever ever have to VOMIT and breastfeed at the same time.  This is what I found myself doing on Thursday evening.  It was not very dignified but I am happy to report that I managed to keep myself and Milkbaby completely clean, and Milkbaby didn't even notice the drama.

By Saturday I was still feeling and looking like a carsick beagle, the red-hot-poker-boob had an angry big red patch covering it, and to boot the milk had all but dried up.  Milkbaby was unimpressed.  I called my neighbour, a lactation consultant.

"I'm worried about my miilllk..."  I whined.
"I'm worried about you" she said.  "You should be feeling better by now and the redness should have gone.  I think you should go to A&E."
"But I'm supposed to be getting my hair cut today." [rising panic]
"Well, get your hair cut, then take yourself down to the hospital." (Luckily she's very sensible and understanding like that.)

And that, people, is exactly what I did.

To be continued...