Where should I begin?

At thirty-mumble years old and more than 7 months pregnant, I had an ache. It was strange. I was laying on my side in bed. The sensation was concerning, but really, who thought it wouldn’t be a milk-duct developing. Maybe a muscle used less than it should have been during recent months, had been rudely awakened during a busy weekend carrying a toddler everywhere. And all the accessories that go with said toddler. Accessories for a dance recital no less. Maybe my bra was just not quite right since things change in the area of “the girls” when you are getting so close to finally holding your baby. Still, I asked at my doctor appointment that week. “Probably nothing”, she said, “but let’s get it checked just in case”. It was, of course, late on a Friday afternoon, so the call would have to wait.

We had a date night. We had family time with our first baby while we waited for our second baby.

We pretended there was nothing hanging in the balance. It was the last of my ignorant bliss.