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Oh, what a journey motherhood is! Picture this: I’m at 32,000 feet, hand-expressing milk in the cramped confines of an airplane restroom, pondering how I arrived at this moment.
“How exactly do I manage to milk myself into this tiny sink?” is a thought I never imagined I’d have. Yet, there I was, contorted over the sink, attempting to direct my milk stream with the precision of a modern-day Pythagoras.
The cause of this chaotic scene? My first flight without my baby in 18 months, a work trip to NYC from London to interview a celebrity athlete. Excitement coursed through me as I anticipated blissful hours of solitude, free of distractions—just me and a stack of magazines.
However, my plans quickly unraveled.
The morning of the trip, I devised a thoughtful strategy. My taxi was set to arrive at 5:30 AM, giving me time to dream-feed my baby before heading off. I hoped to ease her into the day without me. But as I entered her room, I was met with the sight of her angelic slumber. The wave of mom-guilt hit me hard. I couldn’t bear to wake her, fearing it would disrupt her sleep, leaving my husband with a chaotic morning. So, I backed away, reasoning that my breasts could manage a bit of light pumping during the journey.
Initially, everything went well, even amidst the pandemic-related travel stress. I breezed through security, indulged in a vegan breakfast, and felt like I was getting back into the swing of traveling solo.
I treated myself to an upgrade, settled into my seat with a bubbly drink, and envisioned eight uninterrupted hours of “me” time. Pure bliss! But by the fifth hour, my body had other plans.
Missing my morning milk release turned my breasts into what felt like two overstuffed balloons. I attempted to ignore the discomfort, but the altitude and skipped pumping session had left me feeling like I was carrying a couple of hefty weights.
I may not be a scientist, but the combination of nursing frequently during our recent bout with COVID-19 and the fact that I was 18 months into breastfeeding had transformed my breasts into full-on dairy farm udders.
I had anticipated needing to pump during my trip and had a portable silicone breast pump stashed away. So, I retrieved it and headed to the bathroom, trying to keep a low profile.
Once inside the minuscule stall, I attempted to sanitize the sink with the hand sanitizer from the welcome pack. After struggling to remove my layers of clothing, I finally freed my breasts and attached the pump, hoping it would work its usual magic. But anxiety over the task at hand kept the pump from cooperating.
Realizing I was taking too long in the restroom—a nerve-wracking prospect when your last name sounds anything but ordinary—I decided to take matters into my own hands—literally. I resorted to hand-expressing into the tiny sink, transforming the bathroom mirror into a splash zone.
Looking in the mirror, I couldn’t help but laugh at my disheveled appearance—an eye mask perched awkwardly on my face, one breast in hand, and the pump secured to the other. My breasts, while remarkable, do not lend themselves well to aiming, making this makeshift setup a comical disaster.
After a second round of hand-expressing in my hotel shower, I met another mom who shared her own pumping struggles. We bonded over the crazy lengths we go to just to provide for our little ones.
It’s frustrating that modern society allows pregnant women to take up space, yet fails to extend the same consideration to new mothers. If only we could redesign airplanes to be more accommodating for moms—imagine play areas for kids, comfortable nursing couches, and dedicated pumping stations.
As I squeezed into yet another cramped bathroom for my return flight, I couldn’t help but wonder why we still put ourselves through this.
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