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In a few short days, I go back to work. Maternity leave this time around was probably the best few months of my life. The frivolous luxury of just having to take care of my family seems almost surreal given the unimaginable stress forthcoming when I return to my job. I’m stressing, because this has to go as smoothly as possible and it will require a substantial amount of effort to get it right.

In between all the prep work, I’m indulging in everything I can before I have to put the needs of others first. I’m consuming time with my son like it’s going out of style. We’re rocking in a chair, marathoning Breaking Bad on Netflix, trying to hold onto the moment as much as possible.

It’s the end of an era, I keep telling myself. Soon, I’ll have my surgery so that I will never have to worry about being pregnant again. And, as much as I want that, there is a certain bittersweetness to it. Having a tiny baby again reminds me of all the sweet times we had with my older son. There’s something so very lovely about a sleeping baby in your arms, and these days will diminish too soon. So I’m lapping it up as much as I can.

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