Today I went to the post office. The boys were busy elsewhere, so it was just Sophia and me. The girl was IN A MOOD, grumping at everything and everyone all day (except for like 1.5 hours when I was at my friend Amy's house, when she was a drooly little Miss Congeniality, meaning that a) Amy and/or her husband John are going to accuse me of lying about said MOOD and b) it's possible that Sophia was just suffering from an Amy deficiency. I know it makes me miserable). The post office didn't improve her temper one bit (go figure), and while I finished filling out a card and tucking it in the package, she groused and hollered and moaned and complained. I'm pretty sure my card reads something like this, "Happy baby. I hope you stop crying. WHAT DO YOU WANT? Wishing you many hush hush sweetie. LOVE YA!" The package will arrive and my friend will open it and think I've had a psychotic break.
I did NOT have a psychotic break, but I did have a package to mail, so I stepped up to the counter with my complainy baby, dodging severe looks all around (WHAT? Do you really think I'm PINCHING HER or something? YOUR babies never cried?), and handed the box off to the nice postal employee.
"Oh," she said, eying my sad little girl, "she's upset! Do you think she's hungry?"
"Um, maybe. She's been grumpy all day," I replied. We set to the business of shipping my package. I ordered the delivery confirmation, because I love it - it's like spying on your intended recipient. "Did you get your package?" you ask WHEN YOU ALREADY KNOW THEY DID AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA! And then I lost the slip before I even got in the car. I would make SUCH a lousy spy.
After a few moments of postal transaction, the woman said again, "She must be hungry, don't you think?"
"Hmm," I said, "maybe so." What I thought was, Is it possible that YOU are hungry, post office woman? Because you are sort of preoccupied with the thought?
And then I leaned over to fish my wallet out of my bag, and I saw the front of my shirt.
And the rapidly expanding circle of breast milk saturating the shirt over my right boob.
Ah. So THAT'S what you meant.