Breasts, especially my own, aren’t a topic high on my list to write about. I’d rather take on bad breath, boogers, body odor or other unmentionables. But just as Sonny goes with Cher, and Mickey goes with Minnie, boobs go with breast pumps — at least if you’re a nursing mother they do.

As I wean my son and bid adieu to pumping, I thought it fitting to pay homage to the device that makes it possible for nursing mothers to be away from their little ones for work and travel. It’s been a tenuous relationship for me and my BP. I’ve cursed it, kicked it, blessed it and couldn’t have done without it. 

I’ve traveled the planet with that thing. I’ve lugged it to conferences, ballrooms, banquet halls and business meetings. It’s been my traveling companion at galas, weddings and funerals. Though going through airport security with a breast pump leaves something to be desired. It usually goes like this: the TSA official moves the pump back and forth on the conveyor belt; discussion with a colleague ensues before someone says: “Ma’am we need to inspect this.”

“It’s not a bomb, I swear!”

Once, on a three-day trip to Georgia, I forgot the darn thing and thought I was doomed. I bought a hand pump to get by and just the memory of it makes my fingers cramp. I’ve pumped in some unusual places, including a stall at the Pentagon, a janitor’s closet in Jacksonville, Fla., a rental car on the LA freeway, an airplane heading to the West Coast, and in the restroom stalls of every major airport.

The next time you’re in a public restroom and hear “Zit-Zoo-Zit-Zoo” coming from a stall, it’s some poor soul sitting on the toilet with a battery-operated pump balanced on her numb knees. Not familiar with how breast pumps work? Think of a cow getting milked, and you get the idea.

The most unusual place I’ve ever pumped was in the parking lot of a two-bit strip club in South Carolina. How did I end up there? That’s discussion for another column, even if strip clubs do technically fall under the boob topic category.     

I once even pumped in tandem while on the set of “Army Wives” with an editor who was also a nursing mother. In less than eloquent terms, I tried to explain to Joe, the producer’s assistant, why we needed to use his office.

Me: “Joe, we’re both nursing mothers and need to do something. May we use your office?”

Joe: Um…sure…”

Later, I found Joe again and asked him, “Hey, can we do our thing again in your office?”

I’m not sure Joe had any idea what I was talking about. But I’m pretty sure whatever he thought it was, he preferred we weren’t doing it in his office. After the trip, I spoke with the producer, Marshall, and asked how Joe was doing.

“He’s traumatized,” she said.  

Since my BP and I are finally parting ways, I decided to honor the experience in verse. But why limit myself to one genre? I settled on a limerick and a bad country tune.

“BP and Me”
There once was a mom from DC,
Who traveled everywhere with her BP.
It wasn’t real fun,
And now that she’s done,
You can hear her yell: Yippee!

“You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me BP” (Sung to the tune of Kenny Rogers’ “You Picked a Fine Time to Leave Me Lucille”)
In a bathroom stall in the LA airport,
Across from the food court,
Far from my little one,
I had some mommy business to get done.
So I turned on your power,
But ya’ died like a wilted flower…
You picked a fine time to leave me BP.

As nursing momma,
I could have done without the drama…
All I wanted to do was pump and dump,
Now I’m feeling a lump,
You picked a fine time to leave me BP.

Your batteries were too low,
I let out a scream, don’t cha’ know.
Ya’ put me in a real bind,
Almost went out of my mind,
You picked a fine time to leave me BP.

Then I had to catch a plane.
Oh, how you made me insane.
You picked a fine time, to leave me BP.

After all that, just how does one end a column about a breast pump?
That’s an easy one. Boob-bye.