A few weeks ago, I wrote a really brilliant design document/mission statement for my employer. It was concise, witty, fresh, and intriguing. I delivered it before the deadline. It will affect how my company does business for months, maybe even years to come. I am incredibly proud of this work.
While I was writing it, my infant was having what I call an "impacted fart day." He needed to fart, he wanted to fart, but being very new to the whole farting thing, he could not fart. And after thirty minutes of folding him like a baby taco, bicycling his legs, bouncing him, and administering the previously undefeated Magic Berries, I couldn't help him any more. That deadline was looming. The only thing that seemed to comfort him was pushing his belly against mine. Well, not the ONLY thing. Dangling off of me until what had once been cute, porn-worthy nipples looked like something out of National Geographic, THAT made him feel better too.
The point is I didn't just do some of my best professional work to date. I did it with a squirming baby on my lap.
The thing that pisses me off is that if other people knew it, they wouldn't think more of me... they'd think less of the work.