• Amy

    Be Kind, My Boy

    Maybe it was the ridiculous hour of the night (morning?).  Maybe it was the exhaustion of 3 weeks postpartum–there is really nothing like that kind of tired.  Maybe it was the discomfort of hooking myself up to a hospital-grade breast pump every 2 hours around the clock–in addition to then bottle-feeding–because I was convinced that was what “good” moms did.  Maybe it was the big feelings every time I looked at or touched or kissed my new little boy. Maybe (probably) it was all of those things put together. I was sitting on the floor in the living room of our cozy little apartment, attached in all my glory to…