All week I put on my work clothes two minutes before I leave the house. This way I always manage to make it out the door without a single drop of spit-up on my clothes. When I arrive at the office each morning, the first thing I do is take out the box where I left all my heels before I grew too pregnant to wear them. I run my hand across them, flip off my flats and pull out the most decadent pair that goes with my outfit: on Monday, black patent leather. Tuesday: wild orange pumps I picked up at a boutique in Chicago. As I step into the elevator Wednesday morning, heading back downstairs to get a cup of coffee, I feel positively civilized.

I check myself out in the mirror inside the elevator: no sheen of poorly-aimed stomach acid on my shoulders. No tracks of clumpy breastmilk down my black pants. I even brushed and curled my hair this morning. This is what a professional looks like, I tell myself as the elevator door opens.

One step out of the elevator and I misjudge the heel, lose my balance and fall to my knees with an arm-flailing squeal at the feet of a half dozen people crowding to get on the elevator car I've just left. Nothing to see here, folks. Just a professional who still needs her morning coffee. And a few more days to remember how to walk in heels.