Three months after my second child arrived, I found myself preparing for an academic conference. Although it was local and didn’t require travel, it meant leaving my baby for more than eight hours, a time during which I would have limited opportunities to pump milk.
The night before the event, I meticulously packed everything I would need. My work bag held my laptop, while a second bag contained my breast pump, electric cords, tubing, a hands-free pumping bra, empty bottles, and ice packs in a mini cooler to keep the milk fresh. I resembled an overly enthusiastic holiday shopper rather than a professional attending a meeting.
Upon arriving at the conference, I consulted the hotel map to find the lactation room. When I couldn’t locate it, I asked a hotel staff member for help. He looked puzzled as I mentioned the lactation space outlined in my program. “Lactation space. Hmm,” he replied, apologizing for his inability to assist. I continued my search.
Eventually, I discovered that the lactation room wouldn’t be available until the next day. I spent hours in a boardroom with my colleagues, finally getting a brief 15-minute break. I dashed into the women’s restroom, found an outlet by the sink, plugged in my pump, took off my top, donned my hands-free bra, and began pumping.
As my colleagues entered one by one, making small talk about the city and the weather, I awkwardly continued my task of pumping milk into bottles. “How old is your baby?” one of them inquired.
“Three months,” I replied with a smile. Though this wasn’t my ideal way of networking, I appreciated their casual approach.
After twenty minutes, I finished pumping, secured the milk in my cooler, and hurried back to the meeting. I even managed to pump again on the drive home, which was an interesting and private adventure. I felt exhausted and thirsty—hydration is key when breastfeeding—but mostly, I missed my baby.
I nursed my child for 14 months, but this conference was just one of many awkward experiences. Once, a student worker attempted to enter my office while I was pumping; she thought I was out and didn’t hear my calls. In another instance, I pumped in an airport bathroom during a layover, almost missing my connecting flight. A flight attendant insisted I place my cooler in the overhead bin, but I refused, concerned it might spill.
Despite such encounters, I recognized that my situation was significantly better than that of many parents in the United States. I have a supportive partner, financial stability, and a flexible job that allows me to dedicate time and energy to breastfeeding. My experiences reflect a fortunate scenario in a country where many struggle.
Seventeen years ago, when I breastfed my first child, I faced a different reality. At 19, I was unemployed, lacked a college degree, and depended on WIC and public assistance. I didn’t have a breast pump or the necessary resources. I could only nurse my son for six months because he wouldn’t drink formula, and I couldn’t express milk.
During that time, I never consulted a lactation consultant or attended a support group. I have no memories of breastfeeding him in public or receiving encouragement from medical professionals to continue. I was bombarded with information about the benefits of breastfeeding, but once my baby arrived, support was lacking.
When my son was born, he spent time in the NICU, but I didn’t get to bond with him as I wished. I was told he was thriving but wasn’t allowed to bring him to my room. There was no mention of the golden hour, a crucial time for breastfeeding and bonding.
Eventually, as a sociology professor specializing in family, race, and ethnicity, I have become acutely aware of the statistics surrounding breastfeeding. Mothers who are financially stable and over 30 are far more likely to breastfeed than younger or poorer mothers. I have lived two very different experiences, understanding how critical resources and support systems are in breastfeeding success.
The disparities in breastfeeding among different socioeconomic groups are stark. As a young, single parent, I felt disrespected and unsupported. Medical professionals treated me with skepticism, as if I needed to prove my worthiness as a mother. This treatment is rooted in racism, and it reflects broader societal issues that hinder the parenting experiences of low-income families of color.
My two children have been raised under vastly different circumstances. My daughter will enjoy opportunities that I could never provide for my son. While both will face the realities of racism, socioeconomic advancement has already eased some challenges for my second child.
Health professionals must recognize how class disparities and racism impact breastfeeding. Until we acknowledge the profound effects of racism on medical care for people of color, we will struggle to make meaningful progress.
For more insights on this topic, check out our related blog post here. For those exploring fertility options, visit Make a Mom, an excellent resource. Additionally, March of Dimes offers valuable information for those considering fertility treatments.
Search Queries:
- Economic disparities in breastfeeding
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In summary, the journey of breastfeeding can be vastly different based on socioeconomic status and racial background. Acknowledging and addressing these disparities is crucial for improving support and resources for all parents.
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