Motherhood seems to be made up of a fluctuating chorus of tiny achievements:

• walking around the kitchen breastfeeding while flipping an over easy egg for one-handed breakfast.
  
• pulling up your underwear and pants after peeing AND washing your hands while holding your Nugget.
  
• killing a spider in your bed with your bare thumb to protect your slumbering baby.
• getting your Nugget dressed without a shit fit.
• getting your Nugget in a car seat without a shit fit.
• getting your Nugget out of the bath without a shit fit.

It goes on and on really.
These moments are small moments of internal victory--inner dialogue, inside the ol' noodle. They are moments you'd love to share with your friends except you're afraid you've already become that Mom friend with nothing better to talk about than literal and metaphorical baby shit fits.
So you keep them in.
They begin to pile up and you sort of organize them into little stacks of Mom goal gold. Here and there... stacks and stacks of prideful new Mom moments all around, filling up all the empty space where the rest of your life used to be.
My latest bragging awe is the amount of perfect chub on Nugget's four month old legs. The way each roll perfectly rests atop another like soft serve, like the Stay Puft marshmallow man, like an assortment of beans crammed inside a well worn sock--her legs are pure baby bliss. I salute my boobs. I salute them for working overtime, putting in the effort, for not giving up, and especially for picking up the other's slack.
That's right, Lefty--you minimalist, two drop, single squirt dud. I'm looking at you.

These gains from unilaterally breastfeeding feel like a trophy in and of itself.
*see above