Most breastfeeding mums will have experienced that awkward gushing – an overactive let down maybe, or a baby who lets go just at the wrong moment? My eldest will never forgive me for the mouthful of milk she inadvertently received when her little sister was a baby.
But that’s nothing comapred with Sarah Franklin’s story…
As the breast milk ricocheted off the lovingly polished badge of our first class purser and splashed into the proffered glass of Veuve Cliquot, I realized quite how inured to embarrassment I’d become since starting to travel with our three-month-old. Rather than wondering how I could exit a moving plane at 30,000 feet, or requesting another cashmere blanket to hide underneath, I found myself musing on just what fancy name could be given to the brand-new cocktail my son and I had just invented. “Lactation Luxury”? “Mummy’s Marvel”? “Bubbles and Boobs”? I’m not sure this particular tipple is likely to make it onto the in-flight menu any time soon, but surely it deserves its own nomenclature.
My husband, three-month-old son, and I were halfway through our flight from Seattle to London. A happy accident of corporate air miles saw us ensconced in first class, where we’d decided we’d quite comfortably take up residence for the rest of our lives. Jonah had been playing happily on the floor by my feet until the purser had snottily demanded that “the child” be removed from the plush carpet.
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