I have baby spit-up on my black Ralph Lauren pajamas. The smell of freshly soured breast milk floats up to greet me. The baby rustles in the pee-damp sheets of the pack and play. He won’t be slipping back to sleep for just one more hour as we had planned.

My daughter rushes out the door, almost late for work, berating herself for making ‘the worst decisions’ in the middle of the night when the baby awoke, and she decided his impromptu 4 AM feeding could substitute for the 6.

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