Argh! The wedding is in just less than four hours.
With all the doing everything for everyone else, I just plain ran out of time to go shopping for a brand new outfit. Complete with shoes and handbag.
Forget that, I barely had time to get out of my pyjamas – the closest I came to doing that some days was to pull them down to my knees to go to the loo. And top up as far as one boob to feed. – forget rifling through wardrobe to find something suitable!
And here we are … I have no idea what I’m going to wear.
Chippie is attending with us, so that kinda adds another element. My brother, who is coming over to babysit the kids, and take them to a kids movie that he really wants to see and is worried about being arrested should he go on his own, refuses to look after a baby. Wimp.
It’s also a high 30 degree day.
My legs haven’t been waxed, so a skirt is out. I’ll do the underarms, but am not going to attempt a home full leg and bikini was with two inquisitive boys and a baby that could demand a breast feed at any moment.
I settle on a sleeveless, non-breastfeeding style dress. I do want to at least look the part. And it does make me feel nice to dress up a little.
Decision made, the weather turns cool and I throw a tantrum.
Fortunatley, before we leave, it warms up again and off we go.
Chippie decides he needs not one (as expected, late in the evening, where most guests were likely to be drunk and not notice), but two feeds, which required a creative, precision removal of arm from dress, undoing of feedy bit on bra and throwing of muslin over shoulder to avoid booby exposure to bunch of 23 year olds sipping champagne cocktails.
Of course, the subtlness of the manoeuvre works its way rapidly down the drain when you have a screaming baby launching itself breastward, and a more than tipsy husband attempting to help with the throwing of the muslin over shoulder, thereby not only drawing attention to the circumstances, but also your now exposed left breast.
The strategic placing of a baby, however, is an art, and one that I can manage quite well. It also discreetly removes your nipple from view.
The drunk bloke at the next table, however, does nothing for your situation when he exclaims, quite loudly, “That’s not on!”
I glare at him, astounded, alarmed and ready to get on my high horse and tell him where to go.
“Can you move the baby? I can’t see!”