From Here to Autonomy

Making it Work: Traveling while lactating

I have no expectations of earning any bloggys for this series of posts, in which I share the practicalities of being a working mom of a baby girl. I realize that this solidifies my status as "one of those people" who think that every mundane aspect of parenting deserves to be chronicled.

But I feel strongly about writing about my experience, even if that experience is not that exciting, or doesn't lend itself to engaging prose. I find that as a relatively new mom I slurp up others' anecdotes, as I'm hungry for hearing about how other women manage in what seems to be at times two self-canceling realities: working and parenting. Indulge me, or tune in another time when I am back in working mode...

I had worried about how difficult it might be to return to work. Not the work part, the being away from the babe part. And the pumping part. Actually the transition has been--dare I say--good. Better than expected.

I enjoyed every second I had spent with my daughter on mat leave, but I was jonesing for a schedule. I like having to adhere to a schedule and having dedicated thinking time. Having this space in the day only makes seeing my daughter at the end of it that much more enjoyable.

The pumping is a pain, but everyone at the office is supportive. We've made our supply room the "Pump Room" for the time-being. I duck in and put a sign on the door, requesting 30 minutes of privacy, three times a day. I crank out email and even take calls in there if they are internal. If it's a client call, I take it in my office. 

Travel has been interesting. I started off slow--a day trip down to LA--fly in, fly out. How hard could it be? Still, it was my first, and a new milestone in my time away from child.

"It will be like I'm at the office," I told H-band, only it really wouldn't be. I had a place to pump at the office, and I hardly knew where I would pump in LA. Surprisingly I'd yet to have the dignity-dissolving experience of pumping while perched on the john, the slurping sound of my hands-free Medela echoing off the tiled walls of a public bathroom.

I was grateful that my first business trip since returning from mat leave was a relatively simple one. I carried a purse and my pumping equipment in a second canvas bag. It's been beautiful on the West Coast; I didn't even need to fuss with a coat. I figured, what could befall me other than a flight delay?

The first obstacle was in security. I hadn't even pumped yet, but my equipment bag had to go through a second inspection. Still I got through to my flight. Easy peasy.

I didn't fly into LAX but rather Orange County, a smaller airport, but fortunately it had a Red Carpet Club. All of the enclosed offices had glass walls overlooking the airport--a nice touch, but not for someone looking for a private place to pump. I headed to the women's restroom.

It was a onesie. With no stall. Shit.

I did the math: Meeting in little over an hour; four hours since I'd pumped. I needed to do this--now. I held the restroom hostage, grateful that only one poor soul knocked.

I flew out of LAX, which was much more amenable, meaning I used a stall in the club on the far end of the rest room that had a changing table--just enough space to lay out my gear, strap up, and read email on my Blackberry while pumping.

Amazing how grateful you become for the little things.

But security was a bear.

"What's in your bag, ma'am?"

"A pump. And some milk."

"Security check! We have some milk here."

I walk past the conveyor belt toward another station with different equipment.

"Ma'am, do I have your permission to take the contents out of this bag, or would you like me to do this in private?"

It wasn't like he was asking me to nurse in public."

"Here is fine."

I felt a bit sheepish, as he held up half of one bottle--all that I had managed to squeeze out in Orange County. All this freaking work for three ounces.

"I'm going to put this through a radiation test," the TSA official said.

It failed.

"What does this mean?" I asked, that my milk is radioactive?

"No ma'am. We just need to do another test." He opened the bottle of milk and put what looked like a litmus strip over the top to "test the fumes."  I was free to go.

This week I traveled cross-country for several days. I'd mapped out my meetings and marked in my calendar good times to pump, but I didn't know for certain where--or if--there would be places to take my get up. Even if I could duck into a bathroom at any one of the places I was headed, I wasn't sure I wanted to pump at a client engagement. I looked at my schedule and noted that I was cutting it close between my last meeting and my flight home. I wondered if it would be gauche to pump in the cab on my way to the airport. Are there rules about that?

UPDATE: I opted not to pump in the cab--too messy, and the trip went fine, though I'm quite positive my boobs are confused. I pumped at our NY offices whenever I had a chance, then went for long stretches of nada. Watching what I consider liquid gold go down the drain (I had resolved myself to pumping and dumping, rather than try and figure out how I'd keep my milk fresh for three days) was more painful than I thought. In the early days I fought hard to establish a supply, and for three days my goal was to just get rid of it.

On the way back to CA I managed to pump before my flight, in the club restroom. I appreciated all the free tampons, pads, feminine aids that were available in the rest room, but I would have traded this bounty for a stall large enough to place all of my luggage and pumping equipment, and a surface in the stall to place my stuff.

I had just enough time afterward to grab a snack in the club and make it to my boarding gate. By the time I landed in SF I looked like Dolly Parton from the neck down. 

Mother's guilt begins: Contemplating third trimester travel

A few weeks ago I went to my monthly appointment with my midwife, a gal I've moved heaven and earth (translation: moved to a more expensive insurance plan) to keep. Every few weeks, as I get more and more uncovered lab invoices and anticipate the biggie to come--the hospital bill--I remind myself that I chose this situation. I chose this insurance plan because it includes in its network the hospital where my midwife works, and I really, really like my midwife. She's been in the midwifery business for years, she came very well recommended, and when we met I said to myself--SHE'S the one.

So then, why can I not take her advice?

My monthly checkup was about 90 percent complete--baby's heartbeat is fine, my growth is normal, my pee is normal--when H-band decides to chime in with The Question. The question I'd answered for myself a long time ago, but obviously not to his satisfaction:

"You know, Jory's got a blogging conference in New York in early August she's planning on going to. She's been traveling a lot lately, and this would be her last trip, but I just wonder if it's a good idea."

Midwife asks: "How many weeks will you be?"

"Thirty four," H-band says.

"Thirty three," I correct him, "entering my thirty fourth."

Our midwife doesn't even take a second to think it over, "Oh well, you're not going."

"I'm not?"

"Oh no, not at thirty four weeks."

I throw out my defensive measure--the one I'd been resting on."My airline cut-off is thirty six weeks!"

"Airlines don't know what's best for you," she says launching into a very well-meaning discussion about how it makes perfect sense that I would still continue to think like a business person, since it's how I've derived my identity for so long, and how difficult it can be to start thinking like a mom. But starting now, it was time to think differently, make different decisions.

I think to myself, of course I will, but after the conference.

Mentally I cross off a business trip to Chicago and my high school reunion, which would take place the two weeks before my conference. These are the sacrifices I must make as a mom to be. But no. Not my conference.

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Notes entering the third week of travel...

I throw the suitcase on the bed. Jesse hates when I do that--airplane germs he says. That case has been everywhere. The zipper on the left side is broken, has been for a while, but I don't want to look for another suitcase yet. I have honed my packing routine with this one. I know what can fit where. I fear that I won't remember things with a new suitcase. Looking at this one I can tell that I've forgotten things by the thickness, or thinness, of the front pocket. I keep jewelry stashed in secret places in case I forget to pack a necklace, or a bracelet. I decide out of guilt to move the suitcase over to my side of the bed.

I don't need to unpack everything--just the used tops, socks and underwear. The makeup and toiletry bags can stay, and the hairbrush, and the belts--those have been placed on the same side and remain untouched. Some items need to be replenished, like my aspirin case, my Q-tip dispenser, my toothpaste, my business card holder. I refill those immediately--I know that I'll never get to them if I wait until early the next morning; my brain is half on then.

I put out my clothes for the next day and plug in all of my electronics at the charging station, even if they don't need it. The chances that I will forget to bring my cell phone or my iPod are lowered when I charge them together next to the computer. I've forgotten many things before--jewelry, charging cords, medication, deodorant--but never my computer.

I hung some clothes up along my bedroom window weeks ago, at the beginning of the travel jag, to spare me from coming home and having to rifle through items in my closet. They've been placed in the order of when I will need them--cold weather outfits, warm weather outfits, cold again. These items are clean and unrepeated. "Unrepeated" is a highly subjective term. Of course I repeat outfits, but I do try to stick to some criteria:

--Can't wrinkle too easily--not a hard and fast rule, but all things being equal the wrinkleable items stay home.
--Haven't worn the last time I was in that city.
--Seasonable
--Has matching elements that are clean
--Will go with one of the two pair of dress shoes I can fit in my case

This criteria makes choosing my outfits the most lengthy part of my routine. It's like a logic problem you might encounter while taking the GRE: If Jory has four clean sweaters, three blouses, three pairs of slacks, two skirts, three pair of tights (two in gray), three pair of clean dress socks, two belts, three necklaces, can only fit two pair of shoes in addition to her gym shoes, must have five unrepeated outfits for meetings in two climate zones and may not check a bag (I forbid it), how many outfits can she create?

This has been my routine since January.

I open my underwear and sock drawers--thankfully I went hog wild at Victoria's Secret over the holidays and stocked up on enough underwear to outfit me for several months without doing laundry, but I'm nearly out of clean socks. I begin my process of bargaining: If I stretched it and wore these socks two days--not consecutively--and wore gym socks with boots, I could pull this off.

Jesse asks if it makes sense to do a quick load of laundry to free up some socks and fitted T-shirts and I tell him no. We have four or five waking hours left to do something together; I'd rather not spend it in preparation for my next trip in the morning.

I throw in some workout gear. My gym shoes hardly fit in the bag and I question for a minute whether I should even bother working out. I disabuse myself of this notion and stuff them in the front pocket. This is going to make it really difficult to stow my bag in an overhead bin, but so be it.

I have a conference that starts in SoCal Sunday, but I'm going to leave a day earlier to visit with my in-laws, who live down there. I love to plan extra time--a day, a dinner--to see people when I'm in town. I've become better about making the time for it. But this also means more time away, more to pack, another appointment, another weekend away. I remind myself: You planned this.

I ask Jess what he wants to do for dinner--let's make something simple here, he says, since I'm home just tonight. I notice we don't have a lot of options in the fridge, but I don't suggest we go and get anything; I rescind my right to add grocery items to the shopping list for the week when I'm not going to be around. Later, after dinner, I notice Jess has broken into the raspberry sorbet I bought weeks ago. We've established an unspoken rule: No griping about Jesse eating my food when I'm not around to eat it. We can always buy more.

I've taken a similar stance on work-related issues. Things in the office happen, and I can't be asked to sound off on everything, just the biggies. I no longer take umbrage when meetings go on without me, but I do desire connection. I get my reports in early--something that used to be an impossibility but that I've made possible. I check in more. I create tiny threads of connection that are barely perceptible, but that keep me from drifting off into space. Sometimes I swear all I can hear is the sound of my breathing, like I'm in a spacesuit, like Darth Vader. I remind myself I'll be back home soon enough. This is just another mission. And I remember: Once I'm on the moon, I'm at home.

I call my mom from the car. She knows the drill.

"Where are you going?" she says. I haven't told her I was going anywhere yet. I take an ounce of comfort in the fact that the Bay Bridge is far less congested on a Saturday morning, and I'm surprised when I get to the Red Carpet Club at the United terminal and most of the seats are taken. Some are leisure travelers. Most are like me--opening their laptops and getting to work. I actively decide: It's a Saturday. I'm not doing email now. I'm going to blog.

A Travel Resolution: Spending more quality time on the road

I've been thinking a lot about my business travel rituals while I've spent the last week at home on vacation. I hadn't realized I had some, but over the past few years it's become inevitable.

Before we had secured venture funding, travel was done on the founders' dime. As we started to build revenue we had a bit more budget to work with, but mostly it meant finding the cheapest air and hotel rates, hoping to get some freebies from miles, and researching how to get to and from airports using subsidized transportation.

With our office manager's help, I still try to find decent rates where I go, but I realized how much time and precious energy was lost trying to skimp on basic travel expenses. Now I take cabs or order car services and avoid redeyes. It just makes more sense to have more time to work, not commute, and to be effective at meetings, not just show up for them.

I've also made more emotional expenditures. I go to New York often and stay with my sister, which in addition to saving the company from astronomical room rates also grounds me. If I'm not working late I'll read to the kids before bed, or eat with my sister and watch a TV show. When I'm in Chicago I stay with my mother and like to go to dinner. I may have to get back on email afterward, but at least we can catch up over a meal. 

When I'm not with family and on the road I try (try, being the operative word here) to get in some TV or reading at night. I try to work out and read the newspaper in the morning.

I do what I can, but I think there's more to be done. Perhaps I have to think about spending less time with my "other family."

It's a joke, even if twisted, my husband's reference to my "other family". He uses this term to make light of my incessant business trips. When I leave on one he'll often say, "Off to see your other family?" When I call him from the road and tell him I have to make our call short to get some shuteye, he'll say, "Yep, gotta spend time with your other family." He says it lightheartedly, but I know that there's a tinge of regret in there. I know he misses me.

Sometimes I have fun with this "other family". I'll call him, after coming home late from a business dinner on the road and tell him I was out with my other family and calling to check in. Rarely do our conversations last very long, and I attribute this to having more to do before bed or sheer exhaustion. He knows it's not personal--we have better conversations in person than over the phone. But when you spend a lot of time away that's a lot of small talk.

I'm curious to hear about others' travel rituals. How do you stay connected when you are with your other family?