Feeding dramas? We feel you. Welcome to the most embarrassing story of my life.
I was loving breastfeeding my first baby. After a shaky, painful start, she was a stellar feeder, greedy and thriving.
And then I went back to work. My girl was six months old, home with her dad and had begun to refuse bottles, no matter what was inside them. So it was a stressful time.
Every lunch time I went and locked myself in a quiet meeting room. I’d settle down with a pile of proofs, attach the electric breast-pump and milk away, desperately trying to fill a teeny bottle that I could take home for my girl to fiddle with and refuse. I’d stash it in the office fridge, next to the labelled yoghurts and browning half-avocados, slightly embarrassed by the whole experience.
One day, I was milking away, already feeling bad about being away from both my daughter and my desk, when another sound interrupted the psh-psh-psh of the pump. A key in the door.
I was wearing a dress, so I’d stepped out of it. I was sitting there in knickers, tights and heels, and I had a plastic milking machine dangling from one floppy boob as I leapt up in horror at exactly the same time as someone walked into the room.
There was a scream (me), there were lots of loud “Sorrys!” (them), and breastmilk and underwear flew across the room as I tried to cover myself.
The most mortifying moment of my life was over in just a few seconds, as the person – whose face I never saw, but knew I must walk past in the halls EVERY DAY – retreated in horror as I scrambled for my modesty.
That afternoon, I called HR. I asked for a safe space to pump. They told me they had never been asked that question before (strange, in a building full of women), but they gave me the key to sick bay. Importantly, the only key.
