The (mis)Adventures of a Pumper

Ah, pumping.

The joys of being a pumping mama are not limited to lugging (another) heavy bag around the city.  Or worrying about unfortunate leakages at inopportune times.  Or the fact that lingering pregnancy weight plus being milked makes one feel very much like a cow.

There are also the nitty gritty details that I mostly repress. Like the fact that (since I work at smaller organizations) the only private place for me pump is the bathroom. Notice I didn't say locked. I learned the hard way that locked does not equal private when others have a key...  So to the bathrooms I traipse, suffering any smell that may linger, sitting on the only available "seat", next to a large compost bin in one case. In another case the "seat" does not have a lid and an unfortunate bit of clothing has accidentally dunked itself in said "seat".  More than once.

So I sit myself on my throne and remind myself of the nutrition I can offer (free nutrition at that) and willingly degrade myself.  Like the time someone walked past the bathroom and turned off the lights. I support energy savings but please, folks, check for legs and the hum of the pump. There I sat, in the dark, strapped in and unable to get to the switch, feeling quite bad for my cow-self.

Or the one (and only) time I tried to be productive and return an urgent client call while pumping only to have someone come in, use the neighboring facilities and then flush while I spoke to the executive vice president of my largest client. (But really, I can't blame her - you gotta flush!  And I did hear a "sorry, Karisa" in there...)

I could tell all kinds of stories about auto flush toilets and unaware bathroom goers, but I will spare you. Now I must return to my happy state of repression so that I don't gag and immediately cut Roscoe off from his favorite cocktail.