Three times a day I meander down to my pumping suite. Others refer to this as the handicapped stall of the women’s restroom. I know, legally, that my employer is supposed to provide a private place that is not a bathroom where I can pump, but I’ve chosen not to make it an issue. First, my employer and boss are awesome. Second, there truly is no other place where I could pump unless someone gives up an office. Third, I don’t care enough to make this an issue.
The bathroom suits me just fine.
The funny thing about pumping your breasts in an area that is shared by those who are just trying to do their business and move on is that no one knows the proper etiquette, myself included.
Should we talk? Ignore each other and listen to the hum of the breast pump? Discuss breastfeeding and motherhood? The weather? The weekend?
And what about that awkward moment when I walk into the bathroom and see someone walking into MY stall. Do I turn around and come back later? Do I say, “Uh, excuse me. Could you use another stall while I pump the milk out of my breasts?”
The most popular subject so far has been how long I plan on doing this whole breastfeeding thing. The women I work with who also happen to be mothers have shared their experience and most didn’t breastfeed past their return to work.
I get that.
If I weren’t in a supportive environment. If I didn’t have a husband who was a crazy breast feeding supporter. If I hadn’t seen the lactation consultant in the first week.
I would have quit.
Plain and simple.
But now, I feel like I’ve got this breastfeeding thing on lock. My baby and I have a nice rhythm going and I don’t care to stop until, well, until I’m good and ready. Or until he gets teeth.
I’m still not sure I understand how that works…
Anyway, pumping at work has given me some great time to read my Kindle (thank you first mother’s day!) and bond with the other mommies in the office.
My favorite conversation so far went like this:
“Hey Jen! How’s that booby juice coming?”
“Oh hey! It’s going pretty good.”