But where, oh where, to pump? Private offices are a thing of the past and few businesses offer even a cubicle where a woman can pump in peace. It is this dilemma that has forced many of us into the only semi-private sphere where a working woman can have some control: the car.

It is not uncommon for nursing working mothers to make a mad lunchtime dash for a car, plug into the cigarette lighter and pump away in the parking lot.

But not me. I pump on the road.

Sure, I could wait to pump until I get home, but that would mean getting so engorged that my breasts might explode all over the windshield, and that is not safe. And yes, I could pull over; but then I'd arrive home 20 to 40 minutes later, and that is time I prefer to spend with my baby, or, truth be known, asleep.

Surprisingly, few tasks are as compatible as commuting and pumping. First, they're equally boring. Each requires one hand and a fraction of one's brain power. But most important, they're both jobs that are impossible to delegate. Your husband or sister can pick up the dry cleaning, but they cannot pump your milk or assume your commute. Lastly, both tasks are improved immensely by a book on tape.

But, I must confess, the real reason I pump on the road is because it is deliciously subversive. When I power pump, as I've taken to calling it, I feel like I'm getting away with something. Responsible mothering offers few rebellious pleasures, and if I have to drive home standing on the accelerator with a funnel-shaped pumping flange hoovering my boob in order to experience this rebel joy, just call me "cc" Rider.

Not every mother will want to try power pumping, but for the intrepid members of the Class of 2002 who are compelled by either circumstance or cussedness to try it, I offer the following tips:

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