Every day when I get home from work, I have a certain routine I go through. First, I sneak in as quietly as possible. If she doesn’t hear me I can quickly set my purse down, go to the bathroom air change my clothes. If she does, I’m greeted by the grins and squeals I’d been waiting all day to witness. But gone are the chances to have a few moments to switch gears. It’s mommy time without as much as a chance to hit the clutch.

I pick up my bouncing baby and kiss her and tell her how much I love her. I inhale the smell of her hair. Nom on her squishy cheeks and that sweet fat between her chin and her neck. She laughs and laughs. But it’s only a few moments until she’s smacking my chest.

“I wonder what she wants,” I joke to my husband.

Of course she wants food. Yes, she’s still nursing, I’m not sure when she’ll stop but I don’t mind it anyway. I’m just glad I no longer have to pump at work. She drinks whole milk at home with her daddy but refuses to take that stuff from me.

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