Pumping Mom Quotes

She whirled when the monster was almost on top of her. I thought the thing in her hands was an umbrella until she cranked the pump and the shotgun blast blew the giant twenty feet backwards, right into Nico's sword. "Nice one," Paul said. "When did you learn to fire a shotgun?" I demanded. My mom blew the hair out of her face. "About two seconds ago. Percy, we'll be fine. Go!

He killed a man,” Mom said. “He was framed,” Grandma Frida said. “You don’t even know the story,” Mom said. Grandma shrugged. “Framed. A man that pretty can’t be a murderer.” Mother stared at her. “Penelope, I’m seventy-two years old. You let me enjoy my fantasy.” “Go Grandma.” Arabella pumped her fist in the air.

She could decide how she was going to be. She had a choice. Life could be an endless series of joyless chores, or she could get totally pumped and make it fun. There were bad things, and there were good things, but she got to choose which things to focus on. Her mom focused only on the bad things. Abby didn’t have to.

My mom screamed, jumping out of her seat and making her way toward me, wrapping her arms around my rotund body and pumping it an attempted Heimlich maneuver. (Until my early twenties, I thought it was called the Heimlich remover. Which makes more sense, if you think about it.)

Guilt is a response to what you think you’ve done wrong. Shame is feeling that who you are is wrong.

It is Father’s Day today. I should probably call all three of mine and say Hello, and thanks for possibly pumping my mom with the winning batch of semen.

So I got to witness firsthand how those metal links got broken. The muscles in his upper arms pumped to the size of grapefruits, and the fabric of the T-shirt tightened around them almost to tearing… Then the metal gave way with a musical twang, and the chain snaked noisily from the grate, falling to the rain-softened earth with a clunk. “By all means,” John said, brushing his hands together in a self-satisfied way, “let’s call Mr. Smith.” I ducked my head, hiding my blushing cheeks by pretending to be busy putting my cell phone back in my bag. Encouraging his occasional lapses into less than civilized behavior seemed like a bad idea, so I didn’t let on how extremely attractive I’d found what he’d just done. “You know,” I remarked coolly, “I’m already your girlfriend. You don’t have to show off your superhuman strength for me.” John looked as if he didn’t for one minute believe my disinterest. He opened the grate for me with a gentlemanly bow. “Let’s go find your cousin,” he said. “I’d like to be home in time for supper. Where’s the coffin?” “It’s at my mom’s house,” I said. “What?” That deflated his self-satisfaction like a pin through a balloon. He stood stock-still outside the door to his crypt, the word HAYDEN carved in bold capital letters above his head. “What’s it doing there?” “Seth Rector and his girlfriend and their friends asked me if they could build it in my mom’s garage,” I said. “They said it was the last place anyone would look.” John shook his head slowly. “Rector,” he said, grinding out the word. “I should have known.” I threw him a wide-eyed glance. “You know Seth Rector?” “Not Seth,” he said, darkly.

You are not a failure. Your worth as a mother is not measured in ounces. Say it out loud. Write it on the inside of your pump bag. You’re a great mom doing a hard job, and I hope you’re really proud of yourself.

Mom used to say that the thoughts in our heads were nothing more than electrical impulses. I remember Dad and her talking about this over dinner. It frustrated Dad that the human brain can fire electrical sparks and think, but that the electricity he’d pump into an android brain would never give it independent thought. The body isn’t that different from a machine. Humans and androids both run on electricity. That lightning spark of energy I saw in the reverie. That was my mother’s last thought, an echo of electricity, something that sparked when I entered her dreamscape. That spark is gone now. Her life is gone now. Everything that made her, her, is gone now. Faded into nothing.

If breastfeeding is causing you terrible anxiety, ruining your performance at work, hurting your relationship with your kids or your spouse—all of these are valid factors. You are more than the milk you make, and you are in charge of your body.

Pressing a palm against the new mother’s tummy, Eena closed her eyes and let the dragon’s soul kindle. Her mind sensed the fetus, picturing a disproportionately large head and little appendages still developing. She identified a rapid heartbeat pumping vital blood and nutrients throughout the body. She felt breathing-like movements and uncontrolled twitches that the mother could not yet perceive. She was aware of the massive reproduction of cells taking place, forming intricate, detailed anatomy. Here was a life-form. A young boy. He was healthy. So was his mom. It was remarkable.

An older boy pointed. “Look,” he told his friend. “It’s Violet Beauregarde!” That was the bratty girl in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory who turned blue and ballooned into a huge ball. I was puffy because they’d pumped me up with steroids to get me ready for surgery. I ran to Mom, who was sitting on the edge. I stuffed my face in her breasts. “What is it, Bee?” “They called me it,” I squeaked. “It?” Mom’s eyes were across from mine. “Violet Beauregarde,” I managed to say, then burst into fresh tears. The mean boys huddled nearby, looking over, hoping my mom wouldn’t rat them out to their moms. Mom called to them, “That’s really original, I wish I’d thought of that.” I can pinpoint that as the single happiest moment of my life, because I realized then that Mom would always have my back. It made me feel giant. I raced back down the concrete ramp, faster than I ever had before, so fast I should have fallen, but I didn’t fall, because Mom was in the world.

We are so, so proud of you for being a working mom and for giving this breastfeeding and working thing a shot. . . . Now get out there, attach a machine to one of the most sensitive and private parts of your body, and make the magic happen. You’re a warrior. You’re a badass. You’re a working mother, and that’s an amazing thing.

get a job. She didn’t have to help Glee. But she could. She could decide how she was going to be. She had a choice. Life could be an endless series of joyless chores, or she could get totally pumped and make it fun. There were bad things, and there were good things, but she got to choose which things to focus on. Her mom focused only on the bad things. Abby didn’t have to.

I descended to the ocean floor and encountered bloated, symmetrical creatures with pumping white hearts and translucent skin. Collapsed blue civilizations lived down there, fissured and antiseptic, craggy with barnacles and blistering rust. I reached into the heart of the earth, the sky, the moon. I colonized language, mathematics, schemes of chemical order and atomic weight. I studied the manufacture of automobiles, microcircuitry, Kleenex and planets. I memorized the gross national products of nations and hemispheres, the populations of cities and states and principalities, the achievements of presidents, tyrants and kings. I was trying to learn what I suspect Mom had learned already: that there were journeys we all make alone that take us far away from one another.

There were, inevitably, children’s clothing stores, furniture shops still offering bedroom sets by layaway, and dollar stores whose awnings teemed with suspended inflatable dolls, beach chairs, laundry carts, and other impulse purchases a mom might make on a Saturday afternoon, exhausted by errand running with her kids. There was the sneaker store where Olga used to buy her cute kicks, the fruit store Prieto had worked at in high school, the little storefront that sold the kind of old-lady bras Abuelita used to wear. On the sidewalks, the Mexican women began to set up their snack stands. Mango with lime and chili on this corner, tamales on that. Until the Mexicans had come to Sunset Park, Olga had never tried any of this food, and now she always tried to leave a little room to grab a snack on her way home. Despite the relatively early hour, most of the shops were open, music blasting into the streets, granting the avenue the aura of a party. In a few more hours, cars with their stereos pumping, teens with boom boxes en route to the neighborhood’s public pool, and laughing children darting in front of their mothers would add to the cacophony that Olga had grown to think of as the sound of a Saturday.

When I finally leave the market, the streets are dark, and I pass a few blocks where not a single electric light appears – only dark open storefronts and coms (fast-food eateries), broom closet-sized restaurants serving fish, meat, and rice for under a dollar, flickering candles barely revealing the silhouettes of seated figures. The tide of cyclists, motorbikes, and scooters has increased to an uninterrupted flow, a river that, given the slightest opportunity, diverts through automobile traffic, stopping it cold, spreads into tributaries that spill out over sidewalks, across lots, through filling stations. They pour through narrow openings in front of cars: young men, their girlfriends hanging on the back; families of four: mom, dad, baby, and grandma, all on a fragile, wobbly, underpowered motorbike; three people, the day’s shopping piled on a rear fender; women carrying bouquets of flapping chickens, gathered by their feet while youngest son drives and baby rests on the handlebars; motorbikes carrying furniture, spare tires, wooden crates, lumber, cinder blocks, boxes of shoes. Nothing is too large to pile onto or strap to a bike. Lone men in ragged clothes stand or sit by the roadsides, selling petrol from small soda bottles, servicing punctures with little patch kits and old bicycle pumps.

From: Bernadette Fox To: Manjula Kapoor Oh! Could you make dinner reservations for us on Thanksgiving? You can call up the Washington Athletic Club and get us something for 7 PM for three. You are able to place calls, aren’t you? Of course, what am I thinking? That’s all you people do now. I recognize it’s slightly odd to ask you to call from India to make a reservation for a place I can see out my window, but here’s the thing: there’s always this one guy who answers the phone, “Washington Athletic Club, how may I direct your call?” And he always says it in this friendly, flat… Canadian way. One of the main reasons I don’t like leaving the house is because I might find myself face-to-face with a Canadian. Seattle is crawling with them. You probably think, U.S./Canada, they’re interchangeable because they’re both filled with English-speaking, morbidly obese white people. Well, Manjula, you couldn’t be more mistaken. Americans are pushy, obnoxious, neurotic, crass—anything and everything—the full catastrophe as our friend Zorba might say. Canadians are none of that. The way you might fear a cow sitting down in the middle of the street during rush hour, that’s how I fear Canadians. To Canadians, everyone is equal. Joni Mitchell is interchangeable with a secretary at open-mic night. Frank Gehry is no greater than a hack pumping out McMansions on AutoCAD. John Candy is no funnier than Uncle Lou when he gets a couple of beers in him. No wonder the only Canadians anyone’s ever heard of are the ones who have gotten the hell out. Anyone with talent who stayed would be flattened under an avalanche of equality. The thing Canadians don’t understand is that some people are extraordinary and should be treated as such. Yes, I’m done. If the WAC can’t take us, which may be the case, because Thanksgiving is only two days away, you can find someplace else on the magical Internet. * I was wondering how we ended up at Daniel’s Broiler for Thanksgiving dinner. That morning, I slept late and came downstairs in my pajamas. I knew it was going to rain because on my way to the kitchen I passed a patchwork of plastic bags and towels. It was a system Mom had invented for when the house leaks.

People talk about Divine Order. The people who are really pumped up about Divine Order are the people who have had a sweet Divine Order in their lives. I know that my life is what I have made it. But my mom? Divine Order is the concept that every single thing in your day and your life is exactly how it is supposed to be. Divine Order for some people is, “Went to college, got married, had three children who are now senators and oncologists, had seven grandchildren, then I died peacefully sitting on a blanket in the middle of my flower garden.” That is a really nice Divine Order. Then there are people with a different Divine Order. “Went to college, married an alcoholic, had six kids, twenty-four grandchildren, lived in my car, and died choking on a pretzel in the parking lot of a dollar store.” The Divine Order people are the same as the “money doesn’t matter” people. The people who say “money doesn’t matter” are the people with shitloads of money. If you ask an old lady who lives in the middle of a drug-infested, violent, poor community that she can’t leave because she can’t even afford bread, she might say that money matters. She might say that she had five children, but two of them were killed on the streets, and if she had money, she could have relocated herself and her children when they were small and maybe her life would look different today. So does money matter? Yes. It matters a lot.

So you got a girlfriend, huh?” Milton sounded impressed. “She’s not my girlfriend,” Willie said. “I don’t even know if she likes me.” “Oh yeah? Well, that’s how it goes, kid.” Milton offered him a pickle. Willie shook his head. “The girls you like don’t like you back, and you don’t like the ones that like you,” Milton said. “That’s what my big brother says, and he’s got plenty of experience.” “Your big brother works at the body shop on Nott Terrace, doesn’t he?” Jackson asked. “Yeah. How do you know?” Milton asked. “I saw him there. He looks just like you.” “Yeah.” Milton sounded flattered. “And we both look like my dad. You know him? He works for the highway department.” Jackson shook his head and asked, “Does everybody in your family pump iron?” “Everybody but my mom,” Milton said. “I got Patrick working out with me, too. Patrick, show them your muscle.” Patrick exhibited a walnut-sized bicep. They examined it respectfully.

My all was no great shakes, but Coach made me want to die trying. The big teeth finally fit his mouth, and busted out shining like sun through clouds. Unforgettable. The way he looked past my arms and legs into the soul of the General I might be, totally tuned in on me and the ball between us, curve of a wrist, turn of a head. And I saw the General he’d been on this field once, pumping a crowd, flashing those teeth at some girl in the stands that would steam up his truck in the postgame ceremony. Angus’s mom, I thought. Wondering, was she a cheerleader or what.

Your mom's hot like a jalapeno / She's hot like a fire brand / Your mom's hot like fresh wasabi / She's too hot for your dad / I can take the heat... / I can take the heat...

My mom? When I was little, she used to do this thing at the movie theater where she would ask for an extra cup for water, but then she would fill it with butter from that li’l pump thing instead. And then when we got to the middle of the popcorn bag, we’d pour it in, and it was like a li’l butter refresher midway through.

They’re hippies, but not the peace-and-love kind. Climate change and political upheaval will mean everyone will need to raise chickens, milk goats, and pump their own water from streams. According to Jennifer and Alex, this could be any day. Life can change overnight. Jennifer says that a lot. Too often, if you ask me. But everyone has something that makes them happy. For my mom and dad, it’s prepping for end-times.

Poetry - It's a Tough Life! It does not suit a man to settle for less than he can be, anymore that it fits a lowly flies to stay but writhing maggots. So quit your bullshit day jobs, unfetter the shackles of mediocrity! Arise stock boys, Abercrombie P/T Asst. Managers and F/T faggots. Take up the quill, assume the countenance of the all-know-it poet. Fill this besotted world with your rhymes, unveiled wisdom, your wit. You need neither high skool equivalency diploma nor baccalaureate ~ Us poets at Hello Poetry just wants to get the skinny on all ya’ shit. Move back to your mom’s basement, even her garret will do. Order in pizza and Chinese, pump up the volume, and get crackin! Load Call Of Duty on your PlayStation, be disciplined, follow through. Blaze some 420, smell the roses, text your friends ~ livin' ain’t slackin'! We invite adversity, woe and want ~ indeed, a poet’s life is hard, But nothing beats chillin’ at home all day, just playin’ the fucking bard.

Trent pumped his arm as if he'd just hit the jackpot. "Thank God. If I had to hear about one more incident with that squirrel-shifter, I was going to shoot myself." "Squirrel-shifter? Are you fucking kidding me?" Jace raised an eyebrow in a look that said, Do I even want to know? "Some half squirrel, half man has been showing up naked in people's backyards out in the suburbs. Soccer moms tend to be a little alarmed when a nude man nibbling on acorns is perched near their child's window. I'm not sure whether he's a shifter who's unable to hold his animal form for long or just a garden variety nut.

Chloe talked Clare through the information she needed to hack into the system and guided her screen by screen. Her fingers flew over the keyboard and her laptop screen lit up with lines of white code. "I'm in," Chloe said after five stressful minutes. "It wasn't that secure at all." "I'm looking at the screen, but I don't see anything," Clare said over the video chat. "Where are the files?" "I didn't give you access. I gave me access." Chloe shot me a sly grin. "You and Vito can meet us here and Simi can share what we find." Clare's lips pressed into a thin line. "I didn't think subterfuge was your style." "You never made an effort to get to know me," Chloe said. "Never trust a hacker." "My mom is the bomb." Olivia pumped her fist. "I'm going to be a hacker just like her." "You can be a white-hat hacker and help people," Chloe replied. "If I ever catch you doing black-hat hacking like this, I'll take your phone away forever.

Getting a good look at him… he was huge. Like literally massive. Was that normal? Was he on steroids? “Hey, friend,” I said. “Wait here a second, okay? We’ll get you some help.” He didn’t respond, obviously. Why my heart started beating faster though, I really didn’t get. Never mind, I guess I did. I was going to have to grab this big son of a bitch. If my memory served me correctly—from all the episodes I’d seen of zoo shows and the one game warden show—you just kind of had to... grab them. Could they smell fear? Like dogs? I eyed my new friend and hoped like hell he couldn’t. Two seconds later, the door to the house burst open and Amos was out, setting a big crate down on the deck before running back inside. He was back out another second later, shoving something into his pockets and then picking up the crate again. He slowed down as he got closer to the garage and walked way around where the bird was still standing. He was breathing hard as he slowly set it down between us, then pulled out some leather gloves from his pockets and handed those over too. “This is the best I could find,” he said, eyes wide and face flushed. “You sure about this?” I slipped the gloves on and let out a shaky exhale before giving him a nervous smile. “No.” I kind of laughed from the nerves. “If I die—” That got him to roll his eyes. “You’re not doing to die.” “Make up some story about how I saved your life, okay?” He looked at me. “Maybe we should wait for my dad.” “Should we? Yeah, but are we? No, we have to get him. He should have flown off by now, and we both know it.” Amos cursed again under his breath, and I gulped. Might as well get it over with. Five minutes from now wasn’t going to change anything. My mom would’ve done it. “Okay, I can do this,” I tried to hype myself up. “Just like a chicken, right?” “You’ve picked up a chicken before?” I eyed Am. “No, but I’ve seen my friend do it. It can’t be that hard.” I hoped. I could do this. Just like a chicken. Just like a chicken. Opening and closing my hands with the big gloves on, I bounced my shoulders and moved my neck from side to side. “Okay.” I inched closer to the bird, willing my heart to slow down. Please don’t let him smell fear. Please don’t let him smell fear. “All right, love, pal, pretty boy. Be nice, okay? Be nice. Please be nice. You’re beautiful. I love you. I just want to take care of you. Please be nice—” I swooped down. Then I shouted, “Ahh! I got him! Open the crate! Open the crate! Am, open it! Shit, he’s heavy!” Out of the corner of my eye, Amos rushed over with the crate, door open, and set it on the ground. “Hurry, Ora!” I held my breath as I waddled, holding what I was pretty sure was a steroid-taking bird—who wasn’t struggling at all, honestly—and as fast as possible, set him inside, facing away from me, and Amos slammed it shut just as I got my arms out of there without getting murdered. We both jumped back and then peeked through the metal gate. He was just hanging out in there. He was fine. At least I was pretty sure he was; it wasn’t like he was making faces. I held up my hand, and Am high-fived it. “We did it!” The teenager grinned. “I’ll call Dad.” We high-fived again, pumped up. Amos hustled back inside his house, and I crouched down to look at my friend once more. He was a good hawk. “Good job, pretty boy,” I praised him. Most of all though, I’d done it! I got him in there! All by myself. How about that?

Leaving your baby with childcare when you’re working. Leaving your baby with childcare when you’re not working. Not having more patience. Not having time to sanitize pump parts. Not doing more tummy time. Letting your baby cry during tummy time. Going out on date night. Drinking wine and having to dump your milk. Drinking wine and not dumping your milk. Giving your baby toys with batteries. Quitting breastfeeding.

When I return to my mom’s room, it’s like seeing it for the first time: there on the bedside table are my notes, lists of medications, doctors’ phone numbers. Next to the trash can is a scattered pile of orange peels. A pale blue curtain used to divide the room is pushed back, revealing a wheelchair in the corner. I can hear the oxygen concentrator on the other side of her bed, pumping air into the tube beneath her nose. There is a huge vase of roses and hoary stock, sent from Guy, their colors bright against the drab, and on the muted TV, Fox News or CNN—it doesn’t matter. She just likes the company. “Mom.” My voice cracks. “You shouldn’t make a mess, the nurses have enough to do.” I collect the orange rinds without looking at her and put them in the trash. “I’m so uncomfortable,” she complains. “And I don’t like the nurse on duty tonight. She’s the one I told you about. Big Russian woman.

IF YOU NEED TO OR DECIDE TO STOP One mom I worked with had nursed her baby for a week, and then she became ill with a fever and infection. To help reduce and then stop her milk supply, she pumped a little less time each morning and then used one of nature’s little miracles: green cabbage leaves. Green cabbage has a chemical in it that helps to dry up your milk. If you place a cold cabbage leaf on each breast under your bra and leave them there for an hour or two each day, it will lessen your supply (if you would like to decrease the amount), but don’t leave them on too long if you want to continue to breast-feed; this is very effective and you don’t want to hinder the supply that you need for your baby. However, if for whatever reason you wish to stop nursing, cabbage leaves will dry up your milk altogether.

In other words, motherhood is the most efficient anxiety and self-judgment delivery system I’ve ever found.

The raised garden was in the center of the village square and they had made all the rest of the square around it nice, plowed soil for planting. Charlotte smiled and nodded at Mom, Elijah nodding, too. “Alright, on three!” Mom said. “One... two... three!” They all swung their tools, digging out the sides where they had been standing. The water gushed out of the small trench of the raised garden bed, spilling into the trenches they had dug.  “Go, go, go!” Mom shouted as she pumped her fist. Charlotte clapped as the water poured out and Elijah just watched in anticipation. The water rushed out, coming to a stop seven blocks away from the main source. Confusion crossed Mom’s face. The water in the original garden bed only seemed to go down a little bit, despite the amount that had left. She watched as the water still moved, but wouldn’t go any further, like there was an invisible barrier blocking it. “Okay... that’s weird...

Breastfeeding your baby is fleeting, and while it’s important to you, so is continuing to provide for your family and having a fulfilling work life.

Our daughter is the earth in space between moon and sun. We merge as one heart between her lungs and pump radiance to whoever she becomes.