This is what a typical day looks like for me in this current phase of life. I’m six weeks postpartum with newborn twins, and I also have three older kids ages 8, 5, and 5 — and no, the five year olds aren’t twins, too! Just stepsiblings. I’m exclusively pumping, which for some reason I thought would be easier than nursing but has actually turned out to be a full-time job. And then I’m currently working full-time at a medical malpractice law firm downtown, as a part of the residency program at my law school. Once I complete this residency, I only have one semester left before I graduate!
I am sharing what a day in my life looks like for two reasons: first, to illustrate how absolutely all-consuming it is to be the sole food source for not just one, but two babies. I think about pumping, prepare to pump, or am actually pumping every waking second of the day. And then second, to show how I “do it all.” A lot of people express that they could never do what I do, and are amazed when I rattle off all of the things I’m juggling. But I’m a firm believer that your capacity grows as your plate of responsibilities grows, and that anyone could do what I do. In the famous words of Elle Woods, “What, like it’s hard?”
So buckle up and get ready to tag along for a day! The date is Tuesday, April 7, 2026. It’s my first day back to work after a four-day Easter weekend, and we have a lot to do.
Before Work
3:08am – My alarm goes off. I hit snooze.
3:14am – My alarm goes off. I hit snooze.
3:16am – My alarm goes off. My husband, mostly asleep, places a hand on my leg, which translates to, “Please turn that freaking alarm off.” Good idea, Kevin. I hit snooze.
4:46am – I snap awake. No alarm. Why am I awake? I roll over. Well, I try to. Ouch. I remember that I slept through my alarm to get up and pump, meaning it’s been over six hours. Panic settles in as I recall what PandaLover123 said in the Facebook support group I joined for exclusively pumping moms, about how I HAVE to pump every three hours, twenty four hours a day, for the first twelve weeks after birth if I want to maintain a good supply. I’m only six weeks postpartum. But PandaLover123 doesn’t understand how exhausted I am, and if my alarm goes off to pump and the twins are both asleep? That alarm doesn’t stand a chance.
5:05am – I’m so tired, but also stressed about having slept through my alarm, that I can barely coordinate my hands enough to dry all of these stupid tiny pump parts. I keep dropping things and it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. Breathe. There is no bear chasing you. My mental health postpartum has been surprisingly okay, except for this. Panic settles in when I do dishes, fold laundry, cook dinner. I’m constantly reminding myself to breathe. I think it’s my brain’s way of trying to get everything done before a baby cries, but with two babies, the effort is wasted.
5:15am – My husband enters the kitchen right as I’m drying the last pump part. He pulls out the milk pitcher from the fridge, and that’s when we realize there’s not enough milk to make both bottles. I must have been too aggressive with how much I froze the day before, and missing the 3am pump didn’t help. I start to panic again, but my husband reassures me that it’s fine, only one baby is hungry right now anyways. Still, I’m stressed.
5:20am – Finally, pumping begins. I set the timer for thirty minutes and pull out my phone. As a very independent, Type A person, I’ve always struggled with feeling like I’m wasting time while pumping, so this is prime multitasking time. I start sorting through emails, responding to two weeks’ worth of texts, and adding things to the running grocery list on my phone.
5:30am – I pause the pumping session because the pump is almost full. I empty over 10 ounces into the pitcher and let out a sigh of relief. The babies have breakfast now. I put everything back on and get settled on the couch again for another ten minutes. I get a little more comfortable this time, knowing that in an hour, another round of chaos will begin when it’s time to wake up the three older kids.
5:40am – I finally finish pumping. 18 ounces, not bad. I started counting in my head. I’ll miss three or four feedings while at work, which means they’ll need about… four times four… times two…32 ounces of milk, at least. I’ll pump once more before work, but it won’t make up the remaining 14 ounces. I rummage through the freezer to pull out the oldest bag of milk. I should be grateful that I even produce enough milk for twins, but I am bummed that I struggle to have enough leftover to freeze. The more I can freeze, the sooner I can quit, and right now it’s not looking like I’m going to quit anytime soon. I fantasize about running my pump over with my car while I hand-wash it for the second time that morning
6:14am – I finish breakfast and head upstairs to enjoy my last fifteen minutes of peace before waking the kids up. I start my daily morning routine: I get a load of laundry in the washer, fold the clean clothes still in the basket on my floor, and consolidate clothes for the second load of laundry. It’s amazing how much laundry a family of seven dirties in just a day, and I daydream about being able to afford the laundry service my mom’s friends use while I fold the endless pile of tiny clothes.
6:31am – The kids tumble downstairs and the dog runs up to greet them, tail wagging furiously. They ask what’s for dinner, and then follow-up and ask what we’re having for breakfast, too. I tell them to check the whiteboard. Our family “command center” is a whiteboard next to my husband’s desk. On it, I write the day of the week, what we’re having for breakfast, lunch, and dinner that day, our “activity of the day” if there is one, and everyone’s chores for the day. All of this is mainly because if I had $1 for every time I’m asking what’s for dinner… well, I wouldn’t be going to work, that’s for sure.
7:30am – After eating breakfast and getting my daughter ready, her and I shuffle out the door and head to her school drop-off. I myself am only half ready, but if I work fast, I should have time to finish in between getting home from drop-off and leaving for work. She chatters the whole way about this and that, and I do my best to take it in and enjoy it, chiming in at the right moments. I can’t believe she’ll turn six this year, I think, as she explains to me why Pluto is no longer a planet.
8:03am – I start the pump and begin my makeup routine, which consists of toner, mascara, and an eyebrow pencil, though I am going crazy today and adding the tinted lip gloss. I say a silent prayer of thanks for whoever invented wearable pumps that allow me to multitask as I wash my face. I start my GPS with directions, even though I’m not leaving for twenty minutes. Nevermind the fact that I already made this drive everyday last week, oh, and have lived in this town for pretty much my whole life. I just want to be prepared!
8:33am – I make it out the door just in time, but then I immediately feel guilty when I realize I forgot to start dinner in the crockpot. I text my husband my apologies, and pray that all five kids are good for him while I am gone.
8:47am – I park the car on the seventh floor of the parking deck. I have thirteen minutes to walk down seven flights of stairs, cross the street, and take the elevator to the tenth floor.
8:54am – Success.
During Work
11:00am – It’s time to pump, but I am in the middle of reviewing a thick stack of medical records, and want to finish the task I’m working on first. I think of PandaLover123, and what she would say if she knew I was delaying a pump because of work. I wonder if PandaLover123 knows what it’s like to be the only female in a small, all-male law firm, and the intern at that. I don’t want to be seen as shirking work to take extra breaks. I decide to push my pumping session to the lunch hour and pump while I eat.
11:34am – I realize it’s absurd that I feel so awkward and embarrassed about pumping at work, but I can’t help it. Society isn’t built for mothers, much less breastfeeding or pumping mothers, and even less so for breastfeeding moms who also have work. I pull out my lunch and my laptop, and use my pumping break to both eat and get some writing done. I give myself a mini pep talk, reminding myself that this is nothing to be ashamed of and that saying, “I need to pump, I’ll be right back,” is the exact same as saying, “I’m running to the restroom, I’ll be right back.” They’re both just bodily functions. Still, the imposter syndrome I drag along everywhere refuses to budge.
1:48pm – I text my husband to check in. He doesn’t respond, but I see that he posted on his Instagram story an hour ago. It’s a video of both of the twins screaming, with the song, “You’re Gonna Miss This,” by Jason Aldean playing. I guess that answers my question.
2:00pm – I remember that I never washed my pump after the last pumping session, I just chucked it in a gallon-sized ziplock bag in my rush to get back to work. But now it’s almost time to pump again. Crap.
2:16pm – I hurry to wash the pump in the bathroom sink, using the hottest water I can get. The office has no fridge or microwave, much less a sink, so this is what I have to do every day.
2:30pm – Back in the privacy of the conference room, I start pumping. I glance at the clock and set the timer for twenty five minutes. I’m behind on how much work I’ve logged for the day thanks to pumping (my residency requires 36 hours a week), so I pull out my laptop to at least work on schoolwork at the same time.
2:34pm – I am overwhelmed with a feeling of missing my babies, something that doesn’t normally happen. I pull up my own Facebook account and scroll through all of my photos of their teeny tiny adorable faces, their squishy cheeks, their fuzzy hair. I can’t wait to go home and snuggle them, but I also know I will find it wildly overstimulating after a long day of trying my hardest to get my three remaining postpartum brain cells to do any legal work.
4:00pm – I’m so hungry that I can’t focus and I have to call it a day. Just when I think I’ve figured out how much food I need to eat to sustain breastfeeding, my body decides it needs more. I’ve only logged six hours of work for the day after all of my pumping breaks, and not the seven or eight that I needed, so I grab some extra files off of my desk to work on after the kids are in bed.
After Work, Before Bedtime
4:21pm – The second I walk in the door from work, it’s chaos, but in the best way possible. My God I missed my family while I was gone. My husband is sitting on the couch with both of the twins propped up, giving them a bottle. My five-year-old daughter is getting ready for her Tuesday night dance class. Our oldest daughter is sitting on the couch, looking on as my husband feeds the babies. My son and the dog are immersed in a heated game of fetch. I head straight to the kitchen to empty all of the milk I pumped while I was at work, and I’m relieved to see that there is in fact still milk left after being gone all day. The frozen milk wasn’t even needed. I set aside the usual 12 ounces a day to freeze, and pour the rest into the pitcher. I start washing all of the pump parts for the fourth time so far today, and I preheat the oven for dinner.
4:45pm – My daughter’s ride to dance class arrives (thank goodness for our village) and dinner makes it in the oven. It’s just a bag of frozen meatballs and a bag of frozen ravioli in a 9×13 pan covered in spaghetti sauce, but my kids think it’s the best dish to ever exist. I grab a big bag of Play-doh and plop it on the table for the two remaining kids, and get the dog on a leash to take her on her evening walk.
5:06pm – Ginger is happy to be outside, tail wagging and tongue hanging out of her mouth. After all day in an office, I’m enjoying the fresh air, too. We don’t have time to walk far, just to the end of the street and back, so I make the most of it and savor the silence.
5:22pm – Chaos resumes the second we return. I take a deep breath and remind myself that it’s going to feel like a sprint until bedtime. Just a few more hours, I tell myself, you got this. I throw some rolls in the oven to go with dinner and start running a bath for my son. My husband is working diligently to rock the twins to sleep, a task he’s been working on since I got home an hour ago. Just when he thinks he has it, they want more milk. More. More. More.
5:36pm – I finish helping my son dry off and send him to his room to put on pajamas. I rush to the nursery to relieve my husband from baby duty, since they’ve been crying off and on for an hour and I’m sure he’s at his wits end. He isn’t in there, however, and I find him folding laundry in our room. “I set a five minute timer,” he explains, “I just needed a second.” I tell him I got it, and leave him to his folding. I can’t help but laugh at the thought that we both now view folding laundry as a break.
5:47pm – The baby I’m rocking still isn’t settled, but rolls need to come out of the oven any minute now, and I’m technically fifteen minutes overdue for a pump. Maybe PandaLover 123 can come rock my twins so I can pump on time? Either way, the baby happily half-asleep in my arms needs to be put down in her crib. I say a silent prayer and go for it.
5:47pm – She’s crying before I leave the room.
5:51pm – I set the dinner table for four: the three older kids and my husband. On nights like tonight, my husband and I eat dinner one at a time. Whoever eats first will leave behind their empty plate, and the parent who gets to eat second simply uses the same dishes. At least it’s efficient. I tell my husband it’s his turn to eat first tonight, because I need to pump as soon as he’s done. In the meantime, I head back to the nursery, armed with even more milk. I finally get the babies to sleep, so now it’s time for me to eat.
5:51pm – The babies are crying again already. More milk, seriously?!
6:21pm – My dinner is cold, and I’m worried I didn’t cook it long enough. I ask everyone else how dinner was, and they say fine. I look at the clock and realize that it has been thirty minutes since dinner came out of the oven, so that explains it. I finish eating and start pumping.
6:30pm – I read on Facebook that 1,000 ounces of breastmilk is about a month’s worth. Which for me, with twins, means 2,000 ounces would last me a month. There’s barely 500 ounces in my freezer. I cry.
7:20pm – Finally done pumping and I have thirteen more ounces to show for it. I stick it in the fridge, wash my pump for the fifth time, and go back upstairs to finish up bedtime with the kids. I think my husband almost has the twins down, but it’s been three hours of cluster feeding mayhem. The big kids are all in their pajamas, and I sit in their room and chat with them before lights out. They tell me about their favorite parts of their day, I ask them what they learned at school, and I tuck them each into bed. On my way out the door, my son asks, “You’re still going to make banana bread, right?” Crap.
After Bedtime: The Home Stretch
7:45pm – I did indeed promise my kids banana bread, and honestly the bananas won’t last another day on the counter and I’m too broke to stomach just throwing them away. So for the sake of my kids and my bank account, I start whipping up banana bread.
8:03pm – The bread makes it into the oven, and since I have to be awake to pull it out of the oven in an hour, I make the most of my time by unloading and reloading the dishwasher, starting the bottle washer, cleaning up the dinner table, and tidying the whole downstairs. At some point, my husband pokes his head in to say goodnight, and he admonishes me for never sitting down and just resting when I have the chance. I jokingly say what I always heard my mom say growing up — “You can sleep when you’re dead!” — but promise that as soon as the bread is done, I’ll be up.
9:15pm – The bread is done baking and the kitchen is spotless. I’m so tired I can barely keep my eyes open. I debate making lunches for tomorrow while I’m awake, and maybe more meal prepping? I remind myself that I need to rest, too. But first… I need to make sure the bread tastes good, right? I quickly down two thick slices of bread and a big glass of milk. This will help me produce more milk! I reason with myself.
9:17pm – I finally crawl into bed. The lights are already out but my husband is still awake, waiting for me. I set an alarm for 3:18am and melt into my husband’s arm, praying we can both get three hours of uninterrupted sleep. We drift off within minutes.
9:30pm – The babies are crying.
Step by Step Parenting 