When T9 was about four months old, there was one miraculous evening when he slept for 9 hours straight. NINE. It was amazing. It was my first opportunity in, say, at least 6 months to sleep for a long chunk of time while the rest of the world snored away like the privileged bastards they are. And I say 6 because for the last few months of my second pregnancy, I was like a 75 year-old Jewish woman from Brooklyn.

3 AM, any given night, October 2008:

Me: [Dramatic sigh.] F*@k, my friggin’ back! The baby’s using my sciatic nerve as a damn teething ring.

James: [Resisting the urge to tell me to shut the hell-o up] You sound like a 75 year-old Jewish woman from Brooklyn.  Oh, and I’M TRYING TO SLEEP.

Of course, once the baby came, my sleep continued to be interrupted because he was up eating lots. Since I’m nursing, this meant I was up feeding him lots. It’s fairly simple logic.  And it’s just how it works, right?

So maybe you can imagine my elation when my eyelids creaked open to eyeball the clock that night I was gifted with uninterrupted sleep.

It was 3am, and the baby was still sleeping. Halle-freaking-lujah.

Kind of.

Because, as I soon realized, there was a reason why I was creaking open my eyelids at 3am without a baby’s cries to awaken me.  There was a rather dull   but intense pain in my chest. The throbbing kind of pain that triggers those parts of the brain that shout “doctor,” “Web MD,” or “more liquor.”

Turned out it was my boobs. My boobs were about to explode. Without the baby waking every few hours to empty them, the milk just accumulated.  I know how this works, but was not quite prepared for the obscene amount PRESSURE.

I took my finger and poked my left breast. Rock solid. Which, aside from that pain thing, really was kind of nice. I took a moment in that 3am fog to imagine what my boobs would look like in the mirror at that moment: twice their normal size, perky, magnificent. If I could have such firm, full breasts next time I wear that nice dress with the low neck-line, I’d be queen of the damn mountain! (Whatever that means.)

But I wasn’t wearing a dress. And I was lacking the rest of the bangin’ body to accompany the bangin’ breasts.

And maybe most importantly, I was in bed, at 3am, and my boobs were about to freaking burst. This meant I had a few options:

1. Get up and pump that juice.
2. Wake up the baby and let him feed voraciously.
3. Go back to sleep and hope that when my boobs did in fact burst, the explosion doesn’t wake the neighbors.

Naturally, I selected #3, as #1 and #2 required me to get out of bed. Somehow, I made it through the night without any loud noises and with my mammaries still attached to my chest.

But the rest of the night, I dreamt I was Sheyla Hershey. And it was fantastic.