I finally figured it out.
I figured out how to make Sunday lunch without having to stop mid-prep so that I can look down and see a wailing, blotchy-cheeked mess of a baby, pathetically clinging to my leg, so disconsolate and grief stricken because my affairs in the kitchen have prevented her from having my nipple in her mouth for, like, all of a half an hour.
The answer. The kitchen sink.
A simple idea, but profound in it's execution.
There was all sorts of filling up. Pouring out. Filling up. Pouring...You get the point.
It was downright captivating.
It's like my boobs stopped existing for all of dinner prep.
Ah! See? There in the back is the laundry basket where I grabbed David's underpants and used them as a pot holder the other day. Remember that?
Hey. It happens.
Really, like my boobs weren't even in the kitchen.
Oh right. That's not me.
It's a good thing these aren't my boobs. Edie would LOVE these.
In the end, a happy kid. A wet floor. A sink full of clean dishes. A completed dinner service. Breasts that aren't the size of Idaho.
Life is good.