I don’t know what you’re doing with your Saturday night but I’ve just washed a double breast-pump four times.
The first wash was pretty thorough so I decided to grab a quick 15 minute nap but couldn’t relax as in my mind all the germs on the pumps had survived my onslaught and were doing a dirty version of the dance from Fantasia. I opened my eyes and noticed a bit of soapy water still on the inside.
I’ll give it another once over.
The second was done with the poise and patience of a bomb disposal expert. As I carried the pumps back to my wife’s bed a midwife casually enquired:
‘You didn’t use your hands to carry them, did you?’
As opposed to what? Juggle them on my feet like some kind of post-natal circus act? Of course, she meant I should have carried them one of those cardboard bowls that people puke in.
So the third clean was fueled by pure anger, which is definitely the most effective emotion for cleaning - I once had a massive row with an ex and vacuumed the entire house in 8 minutes flat, corners and sofas included. The added benefit was that the neighbours could only hear my hate-ridden expletives when I turned the hoover off to change plug sockets.
I tried to stay calm by reasoning that this was the closest I’d get to my wife’s boobs for some time but it didn’t work. Instead I got a horrific glimpse into what it must be like living with a debilitating form of OCD. I could sense the germs, those evil little bastards jumping around with plans to infect my offspring.
So after the kind of washing normally reserved for a new inmate at Shawshank Prison, this pump was now cleaner that Gary Lineker’s disciplinary record. Feeling disproportionately proud, I swaggered back to my wife’s room with a look on my face that said, ‘I’ve just washed a double breast pump three times. Don't mess with this cat.’
‘You’re supposed to dry it too you know.’
I trudged back to the hospital utility room wondering if my Saturday nights would ever be the same again.