When Pumping Gets....Weird

Not too long after I went back to work after maternity leave, I had to fly up to our corporate office in Northern California for a meeting. I felt like quite the professional working mother, adorned in a pencil skirt and heels, laptop bag slung over my shoulder and toting a purse devoid of diapers, polishing off the outfit that (ironically) screamed "Look at me! I'm a working mom! Proof that you can have it all!" with the best of accessories - my breast pump. Yes, I was committed to nursing, but  I also did not want to knock out my coworkers with my voluptuously lactating rack. You don't have to say it, I already know. I have Employee of the Year written all over.

By the time lunch rolled around, I was jonesing for a pump. I asked HR where a lactating working woman could go for a little privacy. Now, I'm no diva, but I was hoping for a nice comfy office with a lock. Not too much to ask for, in my opinion.

Waaaay too much to ask for, in their opinion. HR opened up a cozy little space otherwise known as The Smallest Storage Closet in the World. I looked around skeptically, shrugged, and shimmied my way into the confines of the cupboard, shaking hands with broken printers and giving the old what's up to the forgotten fax machines. Just when I thought this couldn't get any more awkward, I heard the booming male voice of my boss just outside the door.

"Where's Brooke?" he bellowed. I heard the muted voice of someone no doubt informing him that *giggle* she's *giggle* pumping *giggle giggle*. I rolled my eyes. Yes, providing life giving sustenance for my child is so *giggle* silly *giggle giggle*.

"OH!" I heard my boss stutter loudly. "WHOA! Ok. Did NOT need to know that!" He then erupted into the most embarrassed laugh I have ever heard, like a schoolboy who just realized that his mother has boobs. As I put my own boobs back in their home, I hid out a little longer until I was sure the coast was clear before emerging like a breastfeeding ninja.

Later that afternoon, the boss decided to take us out for a drink. Ugh. I hate having drinks with the boss. I am notorious for talking too much when I drink, and it's always the balancing act to remain professional while cocktailing. So what does a girl do when trying to escape libations with the man? Take a pumping break!

I took pumping to a new low as I escaped into the dirty bar bathroom. Nothing makes you feel further from your 20s than reading bar bathroom graffiti while expressing breast milk. Call Gina for a good time? Be careful, Miss Gina. A good time gets you a baby and eventually you may find yourself lactating in a bar.

I want to know! Where is the weirdest place you ever had to pump?

Scooby Snacks

There I stood in the kitchen, the picture of pure domestic bliss. The house was (somewhat) clean, my makeup was (partially) applied, my hair was (kind of) combed, and I was (sort of) dressed. But, best of all, after an hour of my best wild wild west wrangling, I had roped and subdued the tiny terrorist into the sweetest of nap time slumbers. I practically skipped out of her room as I oh so quietly closed her door, danced over the squeaky floorboard, gave my dog the look that said "you bark at the mailman even a little and you're pound bound" and stopped for a moment on my way to collapse on the couch just to revel in the serene sound of silence.

As I eagerly anticipated working out the mind numbing reality television show in which I was going to fully indulge, I heard the faintest sound of knocking. The dog's ears perked right up as she emitted a low growl. I frantically lunged at her as I whisper shouted SSSSHHHHHH! She looked at me apologetically. She didn't want to wake up the toddler any more than I did. I glanced toward the front door, confirmed that no one was standing there, and, convinced that both the dog and I should have our hearing checked, proceeded to turn on the tv.

I was only two seconds into the glorious drama that is Southern Charm when I heard the sound again. Knock, knock, knock. The dog jumped up, the hair raised on her back, poised to bark and ruin nap time and my subsequent veg time. I couldn't let that happen. I quieted the dog as I tiptoed toward the front door, ready to yell at what I thought for sure was the UPS guy. Thanks for supporting my online shopping addiction, Mr. UPS Man, but I swear to God if you wake the baby it is so on!

But no one was at the front door. Fully perplexed, I scratched my head in confusion but nothing - NOTHING - was going to keep me from the comfort of the couch and the endless time suck of the old tube. As I turned my back to the door, I heard it again. This time, the knocking was authoritative and definitive.

What. The. Heck.

The dog and I looked at each other, then looked down the hall, then looked back at each other. Her expression matched my bewildered one as I muttered, in my best Shaggy voice, "Uh oh Scoobs! This isn't good!"

The knocking, you see, was coming from inside the house. My heartbeat quickened as my spidey senses kicked into high gear. Slowly, I walked down the hallway, the pooch following closely behind. I made it to my daughter's room and as I cautiously opened the door and looked down, I saw it....

The tiny toddler terrorist had catapulted herself out of her crib and was furiously knocking on her bedroom door, demanding to be let out! She laughed when she saw my face, patted me on the leg and ran down the hallway with the gusto of an inmate who had tried for years and finally succeeded in busting out of the 'pen.

And as she claimed her new found freedom, I felt the carefully constructed walls of my own autonomy begin to crumble. I almost had a whole hour to myself - And I would have, too, if it hadn't been for that pesky kid!