The Badge and the Breast Pump

Do any of you remember the story of how once, when I was traveling with the FBI Director, I didn't realize the security detail would search our rooms, and came to find this out when they teased me about how the bomb dogs were a bit freaked out by my Pooh Bear? (I was about 28 at the time...still traveling with my Pooh Bear.) Michael Bluth would say, "No one's gonna top that."

I'm gonna top it.

So as you know, I went back to work 5 weeks ago. It's been...mixed, to say the least. One of the best parts is trying to squeeze in (ha ha) pumping. Despite federal regulations, there's no designated place for this in my particular building, so I generally sit on the nasty floor of my boss's office when she's in a meeting. Then I go down the hall to the ladies' room to wash all the parts so I can do this whole exercise again 2 1/2 hours hence.

So today, after taking care of business, I go into the restroom, sling the pump onto the counter, and head into the nearest stall. About 30 seconds later, the restroom door opens and someone strides by, then stops dead in her tracks. I can see a pair of feet slowly, carefully backing up.

Suddenly, I know exactly what's happening. I don't know who it is, but here's what she sees:



It's a black bag.
With bulging wires and tubes.
Unattended.
In a federal building.

I don't know whether to laugh, cry, or die. There's a long pause, then a muffled gasp. I hurry up and come out just as she realizes her mistake. She jets past and bolts her stall door. I emerge, and see the top zipper of the bag open, and one of the phlanges sticking out, like so:



(For those of you who, mercifully, are uninitiated, that's the part that goes right over your boob.)

At this point in my life, I'm not really fazed by this kind of thing. I have to walk through an office full of professionals to put my own milk in the communal fridge (discreetly, but still). I'm not exactly bursting with dignity anyway, so I just commence washing. And this takes a little while. There are a lot of parts you have to disconnect and then put back together. So she eventually has to come out.

And, as I suspected, it's a colleague of mine who happens to be, you know, a federal agent. Who does not have children. Who cannot relate, even a little, to this horror. And who really, really doesn't want to. The unknown unknowns are just fine, thank you very much.

She is blushing. We make small talk as I scrub my phlanges and flaps. I smile brightly and wish her a good day. When she exits, I double over laughing. I remember reading this piece a few years ago, and laugh harder.

I don't fault her at all -- she was absolutely doing her job, and I thank her for it. As we know, the price of freedom is constant vigilance. In this case, the price of vigilance was mortified repugnance. The poor woman.

I very nearly said, as I rinsed out the last little plastic part, "Thank goodness for modern motherhood technology -- my boobs were about to explode!"

But I didn't. She has a gun, after all.