When I was a working mother navigating the challenges of pumping, I often referred to it as a “conference call.” It felt easier to excuse myself from meetings by saying, “I need to hop on a conference call,” rather than confessing the reality of barricading myself in my office, undressing, and connecting to a pump. I worried that openly discussing pumping would diminish my professional credibility and raise doubts about my dedication.
As a lobbyist frequently operating from the State Capitol, my “conference call” strategy required me to step out of budget hearings and bill discussions to trek several blocks to my car for pumping sessions in a parking garage. Recently, a female senator proposed creating designated private spaces in the Capitol for nursing and pumping. In a dismissive tone, a male senator suggested placing these lactation suites in the female senator’s office, prompting her to mutter, “It’s not funny. It’s not funny. It’s not funny.” Unfortunately, her initiative did not pass, sending a clear message: nursing mothers are unwelcome in government roles, whether as legislators, lobbyists, or advocates. It’s no surprise that I kept retreating to my “conference calls,” feeling torn between my responsibilities as an employee and a mother.
Despite my challenges, I realize I was among the “lucky ones.” I worked in a white-collar environment where I could excuse myself for brief private moments. Unlike many teachers, nurses, and shift workers, I had a supportive boss, and crucially, my own office with a door. Yet, even with these advantages, I grappled with anxiety about whether I was giving my coworkers and clients my best.
The turning point came when our office manager allowed an outside auditor to use my office. Expecting a middle-aged man, I was surprised when a woman around my age answered the door. After I explained the mix-up, she kindly said, “No problem, but I will need a private place to pump.” I was momentarily speechless but soon found myself sharing stories about our babies and the challenges of balancing work and pumping. Her confidence inspired me to speak up about my own experience.
When I did start to express my needs, I was pleasantly surprised by the understanding I received. This openness drew me closer to my colleagues. During conferences, I stopped retreating to my car and began asking fellow attendees if I could use their hotel rooms to pump. One colleague discreetly began handing me a second room key, while another not only shared her space but also left a muffin and juice for me to enjoy while pumping. These small gestures forged deeper connections, turning acquaintances into friends.
Opening up also allowed me to notice how many of my colleagues were juggling their own family responsibilities. My boss, who was caring for her elderly mother from afar, didn’t hesitate to step out for calls from caregivers, and a father in my office ended a meeting early to take his son to karate. This newfound awareness created a supportive network, enhancing our commitment to our work.
When I shared my insights with my husband, he said, “You’re bringing your whole selves to work.” This approach shaped the rest of my journey as a working mother. Though I’ve long since stopped pumping, my need for flexibility remains. I still occasionally excuse myself from meetings to pick my daughter up from preschool. By making my family obligations visible, I hope to help pave the way for future working mothers. I’m not on a conference call; I’m tending to my child. Embracing my whole self at work only enhances my contributions.
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In summary, transitioning from viewing pumping as a secretive “conference call” to an open discussion about motherhood and work can strengthen relationships and create a supportive environment for all parents in the workplace.