Three months after the birth of my second child, I prepared for an academic conference. Although the event was local, I had to leave my baby for over eight hours, with limited opportunities to express milk.
The night before, I meticulously packed my essentials: my work bag, laptop, and a separate bag for my breast pump, electric cords, tubing, a hands-free bra, empty bottles, and ice packs in a mini cooler. I felt more like an overenthusiastic holiday shopper than a professional heading to a meeting.
Upon arriving at the conference, I searched for the lactation room using the hotel map. Unable to find it, I asked a hotel staff member for help. He looked confused and apologized for being unable to assist. After some searching, I discovered that the lactation space wouldn’t be available until the next day.
During a break in a boardroom with my colleagues, I ducked into the women’s restroom, plugged in my pump by the sink, removed my top, donned my hands-free bra, and began expressing milk. As my colleagues entered and chatted about the city, I awkwardly smiled while pumping.
After 20 minutes, I secured my milk in the cooler, dressed, washed my hands, and rushed back to the meeting. I pumped again while driving home. It was a tiring yet private endeavor, and I couldn’t help but miss my baby.
I breastfed for 14 months, and this conference was just one of many challenging experiences. I dealt with interruptions, like a student worker attempting to enter my office while I was pumping. I also pumped in an airport bathroom, almost missing my connecting flight. At one point, a flight attendant insisted I stow my cooler overhead, but I refused, fearing it might spill.
Despite these hurdles, I recognized how fortunate I was compared to many new parents in the U.S. I have a supportive partner, financial stability, and a flexible career. My experience represents a best-case scenario.
Seventeen years ago, when I breastfed my first child at 19, I lacked a job, a college degree, and a stable home. I relied on public assistance, had no breast pump, and couldn’t leave my baby for long since he wouldn’t drink formula. I nursed him for six months before giving up without seeing a lactation consultant or receiving any support.
When my son was born, he was placed in the NICU. Despite thriving, I couldn’t bring him to my room or hold him for long. The staff didn’t discuss the golden hour with me, and I felt dismissed. I attempted to breastfeed in the NICU, but no one offered help or guidance.
I was discharged from the hospital a day before my son. They claimed he wasn’t feeding properly, but no one had observed me breastfeeding. Eventually, I was assigned a visiting nurse, which felt unnecessary since my child was healthy. The nurse, however, acknowledged my breastfeeding efforts when she weighed him and noted his weight gain.
Today, as a sociology professor specializing in family and race, I am acutely aware of the statistics: middle-income mothers over 30 are far more likely to breastfeed than younger, poorer mothers. My two children’s experiences couldn’t be more different, and this disparity will shape their futures. Although both will face challenges related to racism, my daughter’s opportunities will far exceed those I could provide for my son.
Health practitioners need to focus on the class inequalities affecting breastfeeding choices. Until we confront the impact of racism in medical care, progress will be slow.
For more insights on related topics, check out this post on intracervical insemination and explore boosting fertility supplements for additional information. You can also find excellent resources on fertility treatment that may be beneficial.