Flashing the banker
Breastfeeding in the bank queue was only the start, says this new mom.
There's only one thing more dread-instilling than a lunch time trip to the bank - and that's your first time banking with baby. Still, armed with a sling and a bag full of nappies, not much can go awry. Or so I thought.

Having nearly knocked baby out on the swing door, I strode up to the helpdesk, convinced my gurgling cutie would encourage some swift service. Not so, it turned out and I was asked to 'kindly take a seat. You're number four in the queue.'  I settled into an armchair, thinking: It's ok, I can do this!  But as junior awoke with his wriggly look, the doubts began setting in.

The first 20 minutes were easy. Take baby out of sling. Bounce baby around the room, letting him explore the ins and outs of a home loan pamphlet. Hum to baby while helping him admire the furniture. Shift the handbag under him, so he can drool onto that instead.

Ten minutes later, baby has taken to wailing. I cringe as all eyes fall on me, remembering how I'd bitched about people who couldn't keep their kids quiet. I feel around in my handbag - no dummy. I break into song – which turns the once bearable wail into a deafening scream. Oh the horror!

My 'little angel' is hungry. Now what? There's no way I'm losing my place in the queue! So whose bright idea was it to breastfeed again? I'm getting agitated glances - and there's only one way to stop the screaming. With a sinking heart, I realise I'm 'blanketless'. Given that I'm whipping out my boob in the middle of a bank, I'll need a careful cover-up.

With burning cheeks, I turn my back on my fellow customers - and lift my shirt. Silence at last (or shall I say silence, interspersed with sucking sounds and much smacking of lips?)

Just as I let my guard down, the manager steps out of his office (right in front of me) to greet a customer. They settle into a fat chat, while I make pains to examine the corporate looking carpet. Mortified, I catch them sneaking a peek at my not-too-well-covered breast. I try my best to look casual. I mean, hey, this is completely natural right?

Farting at the manager

Another half hour down - and it's finally my turn to be seen. And - we're in the final stretch!
I plonk myself down in front of the consultant, hoping my smile will distract him from the wet patch rapidly spreading across my front.

'I take it you're no longer in business TV then?'  He looks at me with a smug kind of grin.
'No but this is far more rewarding,' I smile back at him, defensively. Of course it is - I mean, a sub zero bank account is a small price to pay for my adorable little bundle, surely?

Just as I'm about to expand on the joys of motherhood, my little darling lets out a rip-roaring fart. The kind of explosive wet-variety fart that warrants a prompt anti-leakage campaign.

‘I have to go, are we nearly done?' I stammer. Clearly amused now, the consultant passes over a form for my signature. My bundle lets another one rip, just for good measure.

I bid the smirking banker farewell and make a beeline for the door. On my way out, an old lady stops to coo over baby. I feign an aura of absolute calm.

'Well, I wish your little man many happy years of banking', she winks.

And as the third fart erupts, I know precisely how he feels about that!

Do babies belong in banks and other public places?


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