I have magical breast milk.
Being the sole proprietor of Le Mammary Mythique has its price. I am committed to udder secrecy; however, today, I rip the tape from my mouth! My nipples are silent, no more!
So, here’s how it went down.
One average Tuesday afternoon, when my breast milk was just sitting around on the counter looking ordinary, forgotten, and partially separated, I heard a sultry man’s voice with an Italian accent: “Bella?”
I was measuring flour. “Yes?” My name is not Bella for the record. But you know Italian men.
“Don’t worry that you forgot to buy white radishes for your recipe. The bambino sleeps. You are tired. Use me instead.”
“What’s your name?”
Just like that. Manna from the heavens. I listened and poured my breast milk into the metal bowl. My homemade vegetable ravioli was saved.
Weird, you say, because who has ever heard of an Italian man named Terrance? Or weird, that I make my own ravioli?
My breast milk, for you naysayers:
- Cured pink eye twice
- Glued the broken handle on our dresser
- Improved the Video On Demand function on our Time Warner Cable box
- Found David’s sun glasses
And let’s say, you had:
Adult acne? Create a wonderful, antibacterial breast milk face mask. Skin clear and free of zits in less than 10 hours.
Filmy car windows? Magical Breast milk cuts through dirt.
Ebola? Breast milk is the only known cure. Pharma companies don’t want you to know.
Need paint primer? BM
Can’t remember your neighbor’s name and don’t want to steal his mail? Drink cold pressed breast milk with cayenne pepper and you will remember his name is Allen; wife’s name is Jennifer.
His prosthetic arm? My boobs knew you were going to ask that next. He fought a bear in the Army. See? Breast milk is your jam.
It’s a big conspiracy. Insurance Companies. Home Depot. Amazon. Google. Congress. They don’t want you to know about the powers of my breast milk. If this information were to leak out (literally), who knows what chaos would ensue.
Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you see it, I detest the breast pump.
Here’s a letter to my breast pump named, Nelson Medela:
Dear Nelson, My Medela Style Pump and Go,
I hope this note finds you well. You’ve been a loyal friend. I’ve admired for many months now, your easy-on-the-eyes design. Your motor is also quiet. I appreciate these qualities of yours.
But, I am over you. Hang yourself by using your own tubing.
Dina Koutas Poch
Unless I pumped non-stop day and night (which would look like a scary illustration from a Dr. Seuss book entitled “The Breast Battle Book”), I just can’t make enough milk for all the world’s woes, whilst fending off evil companies conspiring to steal it and expending 800 calories a day.
Selfishly, my tatas’ tonic juice is for my baby. I know, so boring, so bourgeoisie of me to keep my magical breast milk to myself. Like a hoarder with a hundred chap sticks in my nightstand. IT’S ALL FOR ME! NONE FOR YOU!
Hey, it’s a lot of work. Making magical breast milk is exhausting. Sometimes, it’s a herculean effort for me just to shower every day. Like, Frodo, I feel forced to carry the ring, alone.
I will wean soon to become like regular folk. You know, regular Joe’s working a regular job, eating regular food in front of their regular TV’s. Because, right now, I am staying up all hours of the night nursing and designing systems of secret undersea turbines, set in geo vats to farm thousands of gallons of breast milk — as an idea to unite La La Leche to a clean energy solution?
I know, great idea, huh? It wasn’t mine.