“She’s breastfeeding,” one uniformed man said to another in lieu of an introduction, “but she didn’t get approval from HR.”
Swallowing a surge of indignation, I didn’t bother to repeat that I had read the HR website before coming back to work and thought I’d followed all the instructions outlined in my company’s Lactation Policy. I shifted the bag, holding my pump further on to my shoulder as I glimpsed the gun sitting on the officer’s holster. A third officer wandered up, eyeing me with a suspicious squint.
“I really need to pump,” I said, and glanced down at my body, hoping for an ally in this saga. Met with a blank stare, I shut my mouth again.
Upon request, I produced my employee ID for the college I’ve worked at as an educator for eight years. I’d returned to my office that morning for the first time since having my second child.
Through the thick July air, I’d lugged my computer, my lunch, and the two additional bags full of the equipment and supplies I’d need in order to pump: the electronic machine, the ice, the sealable baggies, the tubes and the nozzles, the markers, the thermos, the plugs, the bottles, the covers and the nipple lubricant.
