Awake to find son sleeping in arms with such a wet diaper it is leaking all over you. Stagger into nursery naked except for sexy hospital-issue mesh panties that hold in place maxi-pad (another post-birth necessity rarely mentioned to the soon-to-be mother) to encounter my Dad, from whom I inherited my insomnia, in the rocking chair reading a book about sailing. Wonder how less-sleeping son could possibly be spraying me with pee through his diaper. Realize that upon inspection, now fully awake and crying son isn't peeing, instead both breasts are leaking onto hungry son's onesie.
Carry on a conversation with dad about defrosting freezer while I change son's diaper, which is a little wet on the inside. Manage to get son latched on to both engorged breasts - not an easy feat - to eat enough to quell leaking and the crying. Head back to bedroom, decide to blog surreal life since already awake; do this standing in front of laptop on a shelf while holding nursing sleepy son with one hand and marvelling at own abilities in multitasking. Son begins grunting loudly and rhythmically, his pre-pooping ritual. Son poops with enough volume to wake up his older sister sleeping in her crib in our room. I shake silently with mirth while Homestead Mama curses and fetches Pequita into our bed to nurse her back down. I return to nursery to change young son's dirty diaper. Thank Dad for pretending to not notice (lack of) attire. Head back to bedroom and finish posting to blog.
Time elapsed: 45 minutes.