A day in the life of a nursing mother.

So, nursing. I love it. I love the bond I feel with my sweet baby. I love to look at her fat cheeks, and know that I'm providing what she needs to grow and thrive. I love the way that nursing helps me rid some of the baby weight. All around, it's great. (once you get past those horrible first few weeks of pain, and engorgement, that is)

What I don't love so much about nursing is the havoc it wreaks on my body. Namely, the uh...gravitational pull that it wreaks on my body. You know what I'm saying? I know you do.

Case in point.

Last Saturday evening, I was invited to a birthday shin dig for a girl in my ward. Originally, I wasn't going to be able to attend, but plans changed and I found myself free to go celebrate. It was as if the stars were in alignment. The baby went to bed early without so much as a grunt, and the other children were happy as clowns, watching a movie with dad.

I sat there wondering if I should indeed change out of my "comfies" (Lindsay's word) and head over to the party for a bit. When I voiced my thoughts to Spencer, he immediately said that I should go. He knows that I've been feeling a bit cabin fever-ish lately, and thought it would be good for me to get out for a bit. He even told me to not worry about the baby, to just go and have fun. (first time leaving the baby for me...I was a bit nervous)

So here I am feeling so appreciative for this good man who knew just what I needed, when he gives me the once over, and pipes in with this little gem of advice, "Well, you might want to put a bra on before you leave."

"Um...I am wearing a bra. Thanks."

Ah, the joys of nursing.