I cleaned between feedings and somehow got dinner and a chocolate cake finished.
Then I realized he was looking at the table.
Eight polished wine glasses. Roast chicken. Potatoes. Salad. The chocolate cake I’d baked while one of our twins slept against my chest.
« This is perfect. »
I leaned against a chair.
Perfect wasn’t the word I’d have chosen.
Then I realized he was looking at the table.
My lower back ached, and I’d been sleeping in two-hour stretches for three weeks.
Upstairs, two three-week-old babies had somehow agreed to sleep simultaneously.
I considered that my greatest accomplishment of the day.