I was visiting my Dad yesterday within the strictures of daytime visiting hours and had to run off for 30 minutes to pump out. It in fact became 40 minutes because I couldn't find anywhere (had to squat in a loo eventually much to the annoyance of the many people who tried the door - more loo provision/ empty rooms without bloody locks on in new PFI hospitals, please!).
James, amusingly, doesn't actually like my milk when it's presented in a bottle, whereas he will really gulp down his Goats formula. So we had a discussion last night and decided, since I'd been planning on giving up the 2-ish feed (being from me, that is) in a month's time, anyway (he's 11 months old - positively ancient), to take the pressure off me a little and reduce the *endless* baby washing up / sterilising then that's it.
No more pumps to work and sitting down in the cold medical room for 20-40 minutes every day. You know, before you think I'm a bad mother (ha ha) I'm still feeding him for 3 other feeds a day. One at 3 in the morning. You know... I'm in there, doing my bit. Sometimes, you've just got to recognise that priorities have to be balanced, and in this case, James will have to be disadvantaged to suit my own, selfish convenience. Or something.
I haven't even got to the point in the day when I would be going off to do it yet, but I still feel a painful pang of mourning.
Time is passing.