Pumping pains

Yesterday I flew to LA for a National Geographic Traveler seminar. It was the longest I've ever been away from Emil - about 16 hours - and I had to take the good old Medela Pump in Style with me since I wouldn't be nursing him. I took one look at the bathrooms where the seminar was and knew I was in trouble. There were only two ladies stalls for about 60 women, and we were given 10-minute breaks for all of us to use those two stalls. Needless to say, the line was long. Very long. I wasn't cherishing the idea of taking up a stall for five minutes to pump, but I had to figure out something.

The first time I pumped, I actually left the seminar room shortly before the break to beat the crowds. This worked perfectly, though I missed part of the lecture. The second time, I decided to go on the tale end of the break, hoping the crowds would have cleared out. It was a bizarre experience, sitting on a toilet without a seat cover and pumping in a public bathroom anyway. But doing it with scores of women coming in and out of the room, each one commenting, "What's that sound?" and being answered with hushed explanations of "It's a breast pump" was particularly weird. I had explained to the women right behind me in line that I was going to have to monopolize one of the stalls or risk exploding all over my shirt. And the women were all very understanding - they were the ones who whispered to the newcomers what that mechanical droning sound was - but it was a little embarrassing nonetheless.

Is it asking too much for private nursing rooms in all public places? Yes, I suppose it is. I just wish that breastfeeding and the pumping that active mothers are required to do to continue breastfeeding didn't so often seem a source of shame.

As I left the hotel conference area, I went to meet my brother for an early dinner before hopping on a plane home. As I loaded my pump, discreetly packaged in a briefcase-style bag, and my real briefcase, Ian greeted me, "Don't you look all professional with your briefcases."

"Yeah, well, one of them is a breast pump," I answered.

"Oh, disgusting!" was his reply. No joke. That's what he said. Needless to say, it didn't make me feel better.

At the airport, I had to check the pump, even though it was definitely small enough to carry on. I knew they wouldn't let me through security with the milk I had in the cooler-department of the case, and I didn't want to throw all that good milk away. So I got the airport early enough to check a bag, and then waited the extra half hour after landing to retrieve the pump, all in the name of a staunch commitment to breast feeding. Your welcome, Emil.