I have always wanted to be an FBI agent. I remember scoring high for that line of work on my high school aptitude tests (although you and I both know I have a tough time keeping a secret), and being thrilled with the possibility.
So imagine my delight when I found myself in an undercover situation. Picture this. I'm walking into a giant ballroom, decked out in crimson and gold. I'm thin, svelte, gorgeous, wearing a long, slinky black dress with a plunging neckline (hey, when you're undercover, you've got to work with what you've got - and I've got a huge rack at this point in time). As I glide into the room, heads turn, and I feel confident. The situation is under control. The secret files are in my possession, and no one would guess it.
Two handsome men in tuxedos suction to my side, and they lean in and whisper, "What is that?"
I look down at the brown handbag with blue and white stripes on the handle that I'm carrying. What on earth? This doesn't go with my outfit at all. "It's my breast pump," I whisper confidentially. "I carry it everywhere I go. I've got a 3-month old son. Shhhhhhh."
Their heads whip toward me in shock. "What????"
"My breast pump."
I wake up.
"My breast pump. Right."
Can you tell I'm a mommy? Even my dreams are being invaded by such practical thoughts as, "I can't leave home without that breast pump, especially if I'm going to be away for a while." Ahhhh, Milo. You changed my spy dreams to mommy moments. And believe it or not, I'm okay with it.
Here's to life-changing decisions.
Hey, while you're here, want to vote again?