Ginny did not take to motherhood naturally. The whole process was so messy, so out of her control from the start—and, all of the expectations that went along with the role of mother overwhelmed her. One expectation, in particular, weighed upon her, that she would breastfeed her child for at least a year.
The nurses at the hospital had impressed upon her the importance of breastfeeding, giving her statistics about all of the horrible things that could happen were she to choose formula over breast milk, and so hesitantly, in the interest of the health of her baby, Ginny had chosen to breastfeed.
Learning to do it properly took her entire 8-week maternity leave, during which time she had suffered cracked nipples, a breast infection, and numerous humiliating incidents of breast leakage. Although she never loved it, she had gotten the hang of it, just in time to return to work.
Upon her return, Ginny discovered that the company had not fully embraced motherhood either, and therefore had made no provisions for new mothers. The Human Resources person Ginny spoke to suggested that she get an extension cord, plug her pump into the outlet by the sink in the Women’s restroom, and sit on the toilet in the stall to pump. She tried it once, sitting on the pot for 15 excruciating minutes listening to nothing but the hum and pulse of the pump, as puzzled colleagues came in and out to do their unsavory business. She produced half an ounce.
In the end, her administrative assistant, Ella, had made a “Woman at Work” sign fashioned cleverly after the “Men at Work” road warning sign to place on the door of the conference room when Ginny was in there pumping to make sure that she had adequate privacy. Ella had also set up a television and a comfy chair so that Ginny would have relaxing entertainment while she milked herself. And so, it had become Ginny’s habit to dutifully visit the conference room twice each work day to relieve her breasts of their burden, and while not entirely pleasant, it seemed possible.
One day, Ginny had just settled in. She stripped off her top, connected the suction pieces to each of her breasts, and turned the pump on. The home decorating channel came to life. Ella must have been in here, Ginny thought. She flipped the channel to what had become, idiotically, “her” soap opera, and she felt her milk “let down.” Such a relief. Just then, the door of the conference room swung open and her CEO, Bob Corchoran, trailed by an entourage of Asian men, stepped into the room. Expressions of confusion and shock filled the room. Ginny’s heart jumped into her throat. She squeaked rather than shrieked. She felt the milk dry up as she struggled to cover her milking machine encumbered breasts. Bob turned around, stretched his arms wide to prevent his tour group from moving further into the room, pushing them back and out, saying, “I’m sorry this room is in use.”
That was the last day that Ginny breastfed, and she never looked back.
You should continue this. It’s a great story. Would love to see it fleshed into a longer piece.
Thanks, I will definitely think about where this story could go, or maybe be part of a bigger story. I have been trying to write small fiction every day, mostly as a form of mental exercise, but also because it is less daunting than taking on a bigger project at this point.
Nice