Tales of a Working Mama: Pumpin' in the Courthouse

WARNING:  This blog post involves topics such as boobs and lactating and pumping.  So, dudes, just stop reading now.  {Dad, I'm talking to you.}

And yes, this blog has now evolved from cute pictures of Adelaide to tales of pumping.*

Here goes...

I had my first work trip last week since going back to work after maternity leave.  Luckily, it was a day trip to PA.  So I got ready --

• fancy-schmancy lawyer suit and pearls? check
• hearing notes? check
• high heels? check
• coffee? check {yes, I drink coffee while breast-feeding.  Stop judging.}  
• booby pump? check

I arrive at the courthouse and do a little reconnaissance -- surely, there is an empty conference room with a lock on the door where I could pump, right?  Nope.  Okay, surely I can just pump in the bathroom then?  Nope.  No electrical outlets.

Hmm.  This is a problem.

After some hemming and hawing, I finally suck it up and go down to the clerk's office to see if they can help me find a place to pump.

Good news:  A woman is working at the front desk.  Bad news:  There is a plexiglass partition separating me from said woman {you know, like a gas station on The Wire}.  My plans of discreetly and quietly asking for a place to pump were thwarted.  Instead, I must use a voice normally reserved for ordering a beer at a baseball game.  {I realize I told the dudes to stop reading, so that was probably not the most well-suited analogy for my audience.  Let me try again:  Instead, I must speak with a volume that I usually reserve for my hair-stylist during the blow-drying phase of my haircut.}

Kate:  {clears throat, raises voice.}  "Hi, I'm Kate.  I just drove up from DC for a hearing this afternoon.  I'm a, um, nursing mother, and um, er, I was wondering if, um, ah, er, there's a place I can ... {awkward pause} pump?"

Clerk:  {taken aback/weirded out}  "Hold on, let me make some calls."

I'm instructed to go down a few floors and talk to so-and-so in this-and-that office.  I follow her instructions and a very nice, older woman ushers me into a large, fancy room where the grand jury usually meets, and assures me that no one will come in.

The best part about this room was that it had many big, comfy-looking leather chairs.  The bad news is that they were affixed to the floor and none of them were close enough to an electrical outlet to facilitate pumping while leather-chair lounging.

So there I sat.  On the floor.  In my fancy-schmancy lawyer suit and heels.  And nylons.  My suit jacket tossed beside me on the floor.  My notes laid out in front of me.  Pumping.

This is what we call "working mama."

Thank goodness it's for this beautiful face:

* I have my mother to blame.  After I told her this story, she told me that I need to write this down.  Maybe she didn't mean in a public forum such as my blog...