Of Backpacks and Breast pumps- A Working Mom’s Journey

It is a cold dank day with the sky the color of a soiled mop. Restless nights stitched together by hungry infant cries, workdays that seem as endless as the value of pi and the weight of my colossal backpack, its straps digging into my shoulders. All of it combine to paint my mood a matching color – that of a soiled mop. I run to catch the elevator, just as it threatens to shut its doors on me. Some puffts and pssts and a couple of annoyed looks greet me as human and backpack jostle each other for that precious square footage inside a little elevator.

The elevator door dings open at my office floor, and I take off on a sprint. Dodging everything and everyone, I reach my destination – the ladies restroom. I land my backpack on the edge of the slab surrounding the wash basins. It is just two hours I nursed my little one, but my breasts are already full and painful.

I quickly take things out of my backpack and set them up in that tiny area. The foldable stool, the breast pump, attachable-detachable milk bottles and the shroud – the modesty cloak that veils this intimate act of extracting milk, all stand on the slab. The icebox can chill till I finish expressing. I sit down, latch the pump and close my eyes. My little baby’s face flashes before me. And guilt gnaws at me. I should have just stayed home and cuddled my baby, says the heart. Career, ambition and pay checks, screams the head. A daily dilemma between the heart and the head. I wish I could heed both!

I complete the lactation exercise and place the milk bottle inside the icebox.  I clean up and restore everything to the backpack. My dear backpack! The office legend.

 “What do you have in your backpack?” they ask.

“You lug it everywhere you go.”

“Your backpack is almost like a studio apartment; you can settle down in it.”

I do not bother to explain. I just chuckle and strut past.

I remember the day I had bothered to explain. And the bitter taste of that misplaced sympathy refuses to leave my mouth.

I had come back to office after my maternity break. With my backpack.

 “What did you bring in this?” a curious colleague had asked. “Planning to run-away from the baby and the hubby?” he had laughed.

 Naïve me had listed out the contents of my backpack. I could not read his expression as he listened to my list. It could be anything from compassion to pity. In the most sad-sweet tone he had said, “I feel so sorry for you. Why do you need to put yourself through all this? Husband not earning enough?”

What do I reply to such an obviously patriarchal take on my “working-mom” journey!

No more explanations, I decide. I keep at it, like a juggler; with all the balls in the air as I balance the roller-coaster of motherhood with the thrill of chasing my dreams. The years glide, the baby grows up and the days of the colossal backpack recede to inner sanctums of memory.

Today is a cold dank day; the sky the color of a soiled mop. As I get off the elevator at the office, my eyes fall on a small enclosure at the corner. There is a sign that reads ‘New Mommies’. Intrigued, I try the door handle. And there it is—a cozy nook with a comfy chair, a table, and a mini-fridge. A sanctuary for lactating warriors! 

My backpack and breast pump days rush back to mind.

I realize I am smiling as I close the door. The corporate world seems to have finally woken up to the needs of the new mother.