It’s the moment of truth: the end of the semester, my students have their concert, and I’m heading to the official on-campus Lactation Room (instead of my usual closet) for the first time.
I stop at the Starbucks kiosk (which isn’t a real Starbucks and therefore doesn’t take Starbucks gift cards) and order what I hope is an appropriate amount of caffeine to get me through the papers I need to grade, the concert itself, and the drive back to Philadelphia without, you know, making my kid totally crazy with mocha-laced breastmilk.
The barista appears to be a friendly middle-aged motherly type, so I lower my voice and ask if she knows where to find the Lactation Room. (The deceptively labeled “Pump Room,” it turns out, was referring to a different sort of pump. Something probably less baby-oriented and more, you know, facilities maintenance.)
Unfortunately, the barista is…
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