Apparently, I was not looking as put-together as I thought in my maternity leave uniform of jeans and a shirt.
I pump in the radio room at work. It's isolated, quiet, all the windows are covered and lighting up the "On Air" sign outside the door guarantees my privacy.
It's like my boobs have their own show.
I called the husband to check on something. He was trying to clean with The Lad, fighting sleep, strapped to his chest.
I tried not to gloat too much as I leaned back in my desk chair.
The Lad seemed to miss me. He was screeching when I got home, but stopped as soon as I picked him up.
He let out a sigh and settled on my shoulder. My heart melted.
Three and a half hours later, after feeding The Lad three times -- he was making up for not eating much with the Daddyman all day -- having dinner, dealing with a tantrum, deciding to skip the boys' bathnight, putting The Boy to bed, making lunches and talking to the husband, I sat down to write this post and wondered where the hell the time went.
I'm not sure how I'm going to do this once the husband isn't here to all day to handle dinner. But honestly, I'm too tired to think about it now. I'm going to bed.