pumping at work

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A few words on expressing yourself at work

Amy Lynwander, 8/14/05

ILLUSTRATION/AMY WASSERMAN

As I heard the doorknob turning I could not believe my ears. Here I was, huddled in the corner, naked from the waist up, holding two plastic cones to my chest. I had reserved the conference room; I had even put a ''Do Not Disturb'' sign on the door, but here came this clueless engineer swinging through it.

Our eyes met, his uncomprehending at first and mine wide with disbelief. Finally realizing what was going on, he froze in place. I had to tell him in as calm a voice as I could muster, ''Please leave and close the door on your way out.'' He snapped out of his zombie state and exited red faced.

The door closed and that effectively put an end to my breast-pumping session. He was not a bad guy; actually he was one of the nicer engineers, just a little dense. I knew I was going to have to say something to break the ice. Later I told him that he at least owed me beads a la Mardi Gras. Clearly, this was an awkward work moment probably never covered by Miss Manners.   

Breast-feeding mothers face a tough decision when they return to work. Wean or make the commitment to strap yourself into a pump several times a day. For all the mothers I've heard wax enthusiastically about breast-feeding —the bonding, the feeling of empowerment — I've never heard one ''Ode to Pumping.''

Breast-feeding is, after all, a natural means of caring for your baby. Instead of feeling squeamish about it like I expected, I was proud to be able to feed my daughter and pass on the benefits that I had read about in countless articles, heard from other moms, and had been told about by my doctors.

Expressing milk, on the other hand, compares unfavorably. It is an activity that hardly makes you feel like you're tapping into your primal maternal instincts. It's not pretty, but here we are, countless women sitting at work waiting for the let down of our milk ducts. You can spot us wearing the casual business wear and pads that show up as those attractive raised circles on each breast.

Some people work for progressive companies with lactation rooms, day care, and flexible work schedules. I do not. I work for an ultratraditional engineering firm, which would probably consider adding a lactation room as akin to budgeting funds for a company rocket for lunchtime picnics to Mars. So you've got to work with what you've got.

My cubicle, which has no door, low walls, and seems to magnify sounds to a ridiculous degree, was out. My attempts to use the conference room resulted in getting bumped by people holding impromptu meetings who would ask me to come back when it was more convenient for them. I decided I needed some help.

I spoke to our human resources representative who hooked me up with a locked room (one of the few) in the accounting department. She even offered to speak with the engineer who had walked in on me, but I figured seeing me pumping was punishment enough.

The room in accounting housed the company's only typewriter, which sat forlornly on a table. I felt sorry for it, but maybe it was just my displaced maternal instincts as I expressed my milk. A couple of times I was ousted by the firm's auditors, but mostly it worked well.

I had an electronic pump on loan from my friend Janet. I remember her cheerfully demonstrating how it worked. I watched but felt as though I was underwater. Do people really do that to themselves I thought? I was still in denial that soon I'd be cleaning up someone's poop and vomit. Pumping was yet another indignity that would usher in the end of the days of modesty and decorum.

It was called a Pump in Style. Someone at that company has a sense of humor. I can't imagine anything less stylish than being hooked up like a cow to a black boxy pump. If the visuals were not bad enough, the device also emitted a mechanical suction sound to complete the image.

This pump was designed to look like a briefcase, with the end result being that three times a day one co-worker or another would see me headed off to my little room in accounting and mistakenly bid me farewell. They'd see me 15 minutes later and look quizzically, but I would just smile and move on.

Not so lucky were some of the male members of my department who would see me washing out the bottles in our sink. ''What's that?'' they'd ask. I would explain, ''I'm breast-feeding and am expressing milk at work,'' then watch as theirfaces contorted in horror. Some don't talk to me to this day.

On top of that, some genius decided to start bringing milk into the office in a bottle that resembled the ones I used. I was forced to constantly ask myself: ''Is that my milk? Is that someone else's milk? Is someone playing a trick on me?'' I never did figure out who it was, but if I do, and I get them for Secret Santa, watch out.

I made it 10 months. Then my little girl started losing interest in nursing, and my supply dried up. I remember sitting in that room for 30 minutes only to come out with 2 ounces as opposed to the 8 ounces I used to produce in my prime. The frozen packets of milk that monopolized my freezer at home dwindled and then disappeared.

Finally we introduced formula, and I just nursed before and after work. When Ellie reached ayear old, she started drinking regular milk, and the store was officially closed.

Overnight I went back to being flat-chested. I'd hoped that somehow I could keep my relative buxomness as a parting gift, but no such luck. I was sad at first that our nursing days were over, those private times when we'd be curled up on the big, pink chair by her crib. But soon was relieved that I didn't have to pump or expose myself whenever we left the house.

I haven't had to pump for a while now. My trusty Pump In Style has moved on to the next breast-feeding mom on Janet's list. I can't say I miss it, but the breaks during the day were nice. Maybe I'll take up smoking.