There is a magic power that comes in the form of what I simply refer to as, The Boob. Aka: the giver of life.

Maybe I default to giving FOH The Boob a little too much but I don’t care. Quick fix be celebrated, not damned.

A cry in the night? The Boob. Comfort? The Boob? Hell, even when he’s happy, The Boob.

The Boob is the answer.

Now the only problem with The Boob is that it’s all you, all the time. Which means, that shit is downright exhausting.

Due to my extreme milk production {I am pumping at least 25 ounces a day}, I still cannot sleep for more than five hour stretches at a time.

People, I’m not really someone who functions well on interrupted sleep and five hours at that.

To top it all off, I’m a working mom, which means I then am expected to go and be somewhere on time and be ON and get shit accomplished.

It’s miraculous most of these things happen during the week.

I forgot that sleep deprivation, that’s a torture tool. Start deprieving someone of sleep and their minds go bat shit cray cray pretty darn quick.

I think this explains my ongoing mood fluctations and the fact that by the end of the day, I can’t think. No, really, People.

I mean that. I can’t think. I cannot form a coherent thought. I can’t deal with making a decision.

This is hard for me. It’s hard to feel half functioning. Half together. Half with it.

I keep hearing how quickly this time goes, how soon it will be over. Yet no one says, during it, how forever it feels. How lonely it can be.