The allegory of this cave

In Plato's allegory of the cave, the people emprisoned and looking at a wall in a cave only saw shadows of reality. They were stuck that way for so long that they actually believed that what they saw was all there was.

Once forced out of the cave, one of the men nearly went blind by the sun, but could still not convince the ones remaining fixated at the wall of the cave that their reality was but a shadow of what was actually out there.

I close my computer and turn off the tv, tired of living life through my television and the Internet.

Being and exclusive pumper, meaning, expressing milk through a machine instead of directly giving it to baby, has made me a pump slave and a marginal in society. For someone who is used to people, talking with people, being around people and being on the go go go, this is all new to me.

Motherhood has forced me to grow faster by checking my needs at the door.

I pump eight times a day, fifteen minutes each time, and no more than four hours in between sessions, with the exception of the night time, when I wake up after six hours to pump. If I go for any longer than that, my breasts reach Dolly Parton proportions and leave my bra like an unruly child.

They also hurt and skipping a pump session can decrease milk supply.

My whole day revolves around the baby's needs and the times for pumping, which seem to rarely ever match. I have done this now so often that I manage to answer emails, play with the little one, feed myself and feed the little guy while expressing milk like a cow.

I have a bra with holes in them, where the pump attaches so my hands are free, which to me is the best invention since sliced bread.

It's time to venture out of the cave, though, even with pump in tow.

So as I turn off all my technology I get baby ready, get myself ready and head, where else? To a bar.

It's a farewell to someone at my husband's office and mine is not the only baby there, but after three anxious hours watching my boobs grow under my shirt I bit the bullet and expanded my comfort zone.

I handed baby to a Marine, as it seems like they are always surprisingly willing (and eager) to hold a baby while their wives just look the other way. Those guys will fight terrorists but will melt at the sight of a little one.

At one point a guy I don't know the name held my baby and told me there was a chocolate store on the other side of the street, if I wanted to go there while he took care of my child. How in the world does he know my predicament with chocolate?

Anywho, I pumped at the bar.

I mean, the bathroom of the bar, but still, how much more modern can I get by expressing milk through a machine while checking my emails on my phone and while drunk girls entered singing out loud, "Sweet Home Alabama?"

At least I am leaving the house to check on reality, whatever that reality is,and that's a start.