17 Weeks!

How cute does seventeen weeks look?


THIS CUTE!



Sometimes when she's munching on her sucker she looks like a teenager chomping gum 'bout to give me attitude, and all of a sudden I can see my sweet baby yelling at me to let her see her boyfriend Spike who I will of course hate, and I hold her tighter and whisper, "I love you so much. So much it's ridiculous. But one day when you least expect it - like in front of your boyfriend Spike - I will remind you I fed you with my boobs. And then I'll pull them out for further demo. Because that's the kind of mom I am."



"Oh mom, you're such a good joke teller!"



(P.S. I'm never wearing my hair like that again. I look like one of the Duggars.)







(Am I right?)


Anyway, she's still cute. She still poops. She still thinks it's hysterical when her dad jumps up and down. When I do it it's totally boring, but when he does it it's HILARIOUS. I think it's because of the gray beard streaking through the air. I do not have a gray beard, thus, I do not command the comedic attention of our daughter when in flight. However, when I take her in the bathroom with me so I can shower, and fling open the curtain when I'm done she goes totally nuts! Which a) makes me feel awesome, because I love making her laugh, while simultaneously b) making me feel a little unsure about that fact that my naked body is what she's laughing at.

It's not that funny Porks! I just had a baby ok? Like, seventeen weeks ago! Give me a little time!



"But it's so funny because you're wet AND naked! Have you ever seen those stretch marks on your stomach? They're HYSTERICAL!"


In between showering and jumping (which we both do more frequently now that we know it cracks her up, sometimes I'm running the water and he's all, "Didn't you shower this morning?" and I'm all, "You need a break from jumping don't you?" and he's all, "Shower away.") we managed to find time to put up our first real (but totally fake) Christmas tree! I love it so much! It's only got like four ornaments on it so far because I just haven't had the time to finish decking the dang halls, but they're a pretty four.





Now if you'll excuse me I have to go roll around in some mud so I can shower when the little Porker wakes up from her nap!

Sticky Situation

So, bottles. I don't talk a lot about bottles because this baby is all about the boob. Well, I'm all about the boob, because as hard as it is to breastfeed, pumping sucks even worse. It takes up a ton of time and isn't as efficient as a baby, so while I'm sitting on the couch hooked up to the pumping machine like a dairy cow for twenty minutes, and I can see it's taking every ounce of willpower my baby daddy has to not softly moo at me, and all that comes out is three measly ounces I feel like I just got bamboozled. Three ounces! THAT'S IT?!?!

Some women are super milk producers, and good for them. I don't get enough for one feeding, but they make enough to feed their baby FOR DAYS. Do you also shoot sparkles out of your vagina, because I'd probably be jealous of that too!

Just kidding. I'm jealous in a nice way. I really wish I could pump eight ounces at a time, but I just don't. And I know my baby is getting more than three ounces at a time when she nurses, a) because she's not still 7 pounds, and b) because when we give her a five ounce bottle she drinks that sh*t like it's a shot of Jager and she just broke up with her boyfriend and is looking to get just hammered enough to make out with anyone close enough to make out with.

But I do it, a few times a week I pump enough so that her dad can give her a bottle at night. They get to bond, and I can trust in the fact that by the time I work up the nerve to leave her for more than an hour and a half at a time she'll survive because she won't have nipple confusion. (Nipple confusion by the way. Something I didn't even know existed until I had a baby, and even then I was in such a hormone-high state when the doctor mentioned it that I immediately pictured a very confused nipple standing on a street corner going, "How did I get here?!", adjusting his little nipple hat, "I'm so confused. I'm just a nipple people! How about a little help!")

Anyway, so bottle time is good, and it absolutely MELTS MY HEART to watch her dad feed her, because you can tell by the way they look at each other that they love each other so much, and that they get a kick just being around one another. They're in cahoots. They're cohorts. They're friends. They're pals. They're so comforted by one another. They're father and daughter.

So, it's all magic and rainbows until things go horribly, horribly wrong.

You know that moment when things start to move aside so that the shit has a direct path to the fan? Well, that's what happened the other night. The little lady was screaming her head off because she was hungry, and I was hooked up to the breast pump so I could get a few drops out while the bottle was being used, so her father got all comfy and settled on the couch and stuck the warmed bottle in her mouth, all confident-like, when I noticed she wasn't screaming anymore. Except that she was. But I couldn't hear it over the other, very loud, super grown man screaming, because when he tipped the bottle over HALF THE MILK spilled all over the two of them.

HALF THE MILK.

That's like watching gold melt and vanish right before your very eyes. You can't get it back, and no matter how much wringing of shirts you do, there's no way you're going to get more than a splash of t-shirt tasting, watery, milk-like stuff which seems totally unfair because you know more than a few drops went onto those shirts and so you secretly start cursing physics, or chemistry, or whatever it is that makes things liquid not as liquid anymore, and you keep wringing it out but that stuff won't even make it into the bottle, it'll just dribble down the side and instead of being rational and just letting it go, you'll lick it off because, I don't know why, it's not like I was going to spit it into her mouth like some sort of weird bird-human-hybrid, it's just that my instinct was to save the milk, SAVE THE MILK THAT TOOK ME THREE DAYS TO PUMP, before I realize I'm still hooked up to the pumper and it's pulling me back down because the power cord only reaches so far, so while the baby and her dad are both screaming bloody murder, he starts running down the hall and I'm like, "WHERE ARE YOU GOING?!" and he's like, "SHE'S SOAKED!" "I don't think now is the time to change her," I say motioning to her with my elbows because my hands are attached to the whirring plastic on my boobs, and she's so pissed her face is now eggplant colored, and so he comes back and I notice his shirt is soaked too and he's probably not thrilled there's breast milk seeping into his belly button right now, but there's NO TIME FOR THAT, the baby is still screaming, so I sit back down and shout, "TAKE WHAT'S IN HERE!" and he's all, "BUT YOU'RE NOT DONE YET!" and I'm all, "IT'S OK. SAVE YOURSELF!" so I unhook, pour what I have just laboriously pumped into the half empty bottle, all the while the dog comes over and starts jumping up and barking because he can't understand what sort of fun we're having without him, and finally we manage to get the bottle in the baby's mouth, and my pumping started up again, and the dog settled into a very confused state on the floor, all three of us sticky, and scared, and silently hoping it was all a bad dream.

That was not the best bottle night.

Note to self: check bag of breast milk is secure in bottle BEFORE feeding child. Dork.

Oh how I secretly wish we had a camera installed in our vents because I'm pretty sure we looked like someone had just dropped poisonous spiders on us and set our feet on fire.

But it's all worth it for this little pork chop. I mean, a laughing baby? I'd spill breast milk every day for that.

16 Weeks!

Whoops I missed a week in there. Week fifteen was good. I think. I don't really remember, except that she got sick on Thanksgiving and there's nothing sadder than a sick infant. It totally broke my heart to see her coughing and snotty and her eyes all watery! I let her nurse pretty much all day for comfort because she seemed so sad. She was magically better by the next day which leads me to believe she wasn't really sick, that she really snuck out of her crib and hit the bars with her girls and was hungover all day, which would explain the stamp on her wrist and why she wasn't wearing her bra when I got her up in the morning! (Little floozy)

Anyway, she's sixteen weeks now and aside from giggling more and pooping slightly less not much else has majorly changed. Well, she did take up smoking, but that's only because I made her try it.

(Kidding)

This is so cheesy, but I love her precious little face more and more each day. Like, just when you think you can't fit anymore love for her in your body - BLAM! Tomorrow hits.




I mean, Come On!

Also, I said she poops less but that's probably a lie. She poops a lot, it just doesn't end up in her diaper. Where does it go, you ask? GOOD QUESTION! It goes in her pant legs and also, up her back to her neck. How does it get there, you ask? I HAVE NO IDEA. Sometimes I see it all sprayed all over the place, and I'm all, "Oh man, if this is what the legs look like, what the heck kind of a disaster will her diaper be?" and then I look, and it's pristine, no poop anywhere even near the diaper. It's almost like she goes in the diaper and then the diaper is like, "Oh hell naw!" and spits it out all over her for revenge.

And now because this happens about seventy times a day she ends up dressed like this most of the time:



"Mom, this sweater is too big, the polka dot onesie doesn't match - anything - and these pants used to be green. Outfit fail."




"I spent all day in pj's because I ruined seven hundred outfits!"



Wearing her grandma sweater, and practicing how to tell the runner to steal third.


Anyway, more frequent posts coming up I promise! And none of them will even mention poop!

(Maybe)

14 Weeks!

Oh my god she's giggling!




Well technically she smiles HUGELY a lot and then occasionally giggles, the rest of the noises she makes are straight lion. Literally. Sometimes when I'm in the other room and she's hanging out with her dad all of a sudden I hear this *ROAR*, followed by her father's high-pitched squeals of delight and part of me thinks, "Oh my gosh that's f-ing precious!" and the other part of me thinks, "Shouldn't those noises be the other way around?" I guess they should be - if you like boring!

You know what else would be boring? If she wore the same outfit all day instead of galactically shooting poop into her clothes, and managing to get it unthinkable places. (Your shoulder, really? How did you poop on your shoulder!?)



"Guess where it's hiding this time!"

Or just nursing like a normal baby instead of nursing, and then mid-nurse looking up at me, smiling, and then sneezing into my boob whilst chomping down on it like it's made of brick and cannot be hurt thus sending me into a wail that causes her father to jump up and freak out because apparently my scream matched that of someone being murdered, all the while non-boring baby is smiling at the chaos she has created like a little sneaky sneak.

Or not peeing on mom right before bath time and then again right after! (Really?! You can't pee in the water like a normal person?)



"Chubby cheeks! Who care if you get peed on, I have CHUBBY MOTHER F*$&ING CHEEKS FOR YOU TO LOVE!"

Or staying put on her activity mat because she's three months old, instead of being totally stationary and then when mom leaves the room for a second to grab a donut (Oh Mah God - am eating crumb and powdered donuts like they'll give me every lasting life. Are so good. Want to take sexy bath in tub filled with crumb donuts.) somehow managing to be a good two feet away from her activity mat, with confused look on her face about how she got there, or how her hands got in her mouth. (Is very excited about hands being chewed on, but always looks baffled as to who put them there.)

I've come to realize there's absolutely nothing boring about having a baby. Even if you desperately want it to be boring, there's no way these little suckers will allow that. They've got things to spit up on, smiles to throw around willy nilly, screaming to be done, poop to be put in weird places, and cuddling to do.

Oh my gosh the cuddling. The cuddling so makes up for anything they'll ever do wrong.



(For now anyway)

3 Months Old!

You shut your face my baby is three months old! I just pushed her out like an hour ago!





Oh my gosh a lot has happened in three months. And also, not a whole lot has happened. I mean, the Pork Chop has changed a ton, but I'm pretty sure there's a pile of unfolded laundry in the corner of my bedroom that's been there since July. She now smiles, and giggles, and farts like a grown man - but as far as me getting anything done aside from nursing and/or nursing, it hasn't so much, uhm, happened. I try! Every day I think, "Today I will do x." And then I head out to do x, when all of a sudden my brain goes, "Oh there's my baby! Let's kiss her and watch her drool! That's way more fun than x! DROOL WATCH 2011!"

But I have started taking tennis lessons again, and running, and baking, and working a few hours a day, and that seems like a heck of a lot if you ask me. Especially when there's drool happening over there!

Now tennis. . . oh my gosh. I'm not what you would call naturally athletic, it's more unnaturally unathletic. Like, holy cow she's really bad at that sport. And that's not even a real sport. That's dominoes.

But, as the father of my child says, I make up for it because I'm enthusiastic. I try, even though my arms and legs refuse to cooperate with what I want them to do. And I get all pumped and excited about it and want to play all the time because playing sports, and games, and stuff is fun! Even if I end up as bruised as the day is long from ping pong! It's still fun! Plus if they didn't want you to dive on the ping pong table to get to the ball, they shouldn't have made it dive-able height, am I right?

Anyway, tennis. I started learning to play when I was pregnant. Probably not the wisest choice since now that I'm taking lessons again I swing wide around where my belly used to be because that's how I learned to hit. I'm pretty sure my new teacher is looking at me like, "Does she have Harry Potter secretly standing right in front of her all invisible like, and that's why she's hitting like that?" (I wish)

So, it's gonna take some time to re-learn some tennis-y things, but it's gonna be fun. And if there's anything I can teach the little pork chop about this it's, "Mama is real sorry if you get her coordination genes and not Dad's supernatural ones. Seriously, he's so good at stuff sometimes Mama thinks he's secretly Michael Jordan and Phil Mickleson's love child. But, even if you do get your athleticism from Mama, at least you'll have fun flailing!" (Because 'fun failing' sounded a little too sad.)



Mom, are you supposed to be falling so much during tennis?



Never mind I fell asleep. Tell me about your lesson later.



You hit who with the what?! HAHAHA! Best. Story. Ever.



It's a different day, and I'm in different clothes, but that's still so funny that you gave yourself a bloody nose! Who does that?


I do Pork Chop. I do.


Oh I love her smiling face so much I want to eat it off!

Are You Smarter Than A Fifth Grader? No, But My Answers Are Probably More Fun

So, you know how kids ask things? And as parents you're supposed to know answers? Like, I very clearly remember thinking my mom knew everything. And while logically I know that's not true, I will still call her to ask questions in any category, because somewhere deep inside me it's ingrained, that she's my mom so she probably knows how to wash a shower curtain, or what I can use instead of eggs when I'm baking, or where my good jeans are dangit(!) even though I live several states and a time zone away.

Well, based on this conversation I had with my sister, I'm fairly certain one of two things is about to happen - #1 My daughter will quickly realize I know nothing except every fact about the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills there is to know, and that I can inappropriately quote Grease 2. Or #2, She will take my facts as actual facts and thus will run around life with a Nell-like view of the world, saying things to her friends like, "The Berlin Wall came down because bad people did bad stuff once and then they apologized like a million years later, and probably baked some cupcakes for the good guys to say they were sorry, and then they tore the wall down because it was an eyesore really. I mean, a big concrete wall? Whatever happened to some lattice. A little vine action anyone?"



"Mom you're so funny! Who the heck is Nell?"



My conversation with my sister over instant message regarding the upcoming holidays:

Becky: We need to talk about Thanksgiving.

Me: Ok well, let's start from the beginning - a long time ago pilgrims came to America and met some attractive Indians, nowadays we call them "Native Americans", and they have a high incidence of alcoholism among their tribes.

Becky: (No response. I keep going.)

Me: Anyway, the pilgrims decided to stay and take over the Indians' land, and the Indians were like, "Ok, but first here's how you make corn. If you grow enough corn you can have a tribal meeting and the spirits gather to make a cornucopia." and the pilgrims were all, "What's that?"

Becky: wow

Me: and the indians were all, "It's a big. . . well, it's sort of like horn-shaped, but it doesn't make music . . . it's big on one end and tiny on the other. Basically we keep our bounty in it. And later it will be important in the teen books The Hunger Games."

Becky: fascinating

Me: "Now let's eat before you give us small pox and steal everything we know and love."

Becky: it all makes sense

Me: and the pilgrims were all, "Deal! Thanks!" And that's how we got thanksgiving.



So basically I need more sleep and to relearn some things. But until then, I'll be feeding this little monster every two hours! Because she's cute!


I like to luxuriate. Big time.



I also like to nap. Nappity, nap, nap, nap.

Stages

Sometimes, when the whole house is asleep, I sit up in bed, in the pitch dark, sipping boxed wine and eating not one but two ice cream snickers bars - two, not because I am a tubbo, but because I am used to eating the King Sized ones, and we only have normal sized ones which are entirely way too small for someone who has to do things like eat ice cream and drink wine at 3am, while her boyfriend snores cozily next to her, and the cat shoots her questionable looks, because it's the only peace and quiet she gets during the day where she's not working, or mom-ing and dammit if she isn't going to enjoy that precious five minutes by eating and drinking herself into a nice little midnight nap before she has to get up and nurse her monster-y little pork chops and start the day again, hoping to god she'll remember to put on deodorant this time because even the baby seemed offended that one day.

Dear Snickers Makers,

Don't even bother with the normal sized ones. They are bullshit.

Sincerely,
Everyone Who's Ever Had A Child





"Mmmmm, Snickers!"



Also, you know you're in a different stage in your relationship when you stop eating the ice cream bars in the middle of the night, and instead bring both of them into bed with you at 10pm when you're magically both going to sleep at the same time, you don't even pretend to just bring one anymore and then have to sneak out and say something weird like, "That first one didn't taste right", but instead crawl into bed, kiss your boyfriend before you turn on your laptop to watch an episode of Will and Grace while washing down your little treat with the finest boxed wine Cost Plus World Market had to offer!

And that stage is called 'Parenthood'. Things are different in this stage. There are no walls, no facades, no pretending you don't go number 2 anymore (which every girl does, like a maniac, even when you live with the person you'll run around hiding it, and waiting until he leaves the house, thrilled to have some privacy, only to be totally horrified when he forgets his wallet and comes back into the house shouting, "Honey where are you?" and you don't want to say, "In here!" because then he'll come and try to talk to you through the door about your relationship or something equally serious that you'd been trying to discuss with him all morning, but does he want to talk about it then - nooooo - he was too busy watching Sports Center and teaching the dog to do karate chops with his front paws, but now he wants to talk, so instead of saying, "In here!" you get all quiet and shut your eyes hoping he'll get magically hypnotized and walk right out of the house without further looking for you, but of course that doesn't happen, the silence just makes him more curious, so suddenly he's standing at the door, trying to open it for Christ's sake, and you're all screaming, "NO NO NO NO! Don't come in!!!!!!" while simultaneously trying to grab a bath towel to cover yourself up as if that's going to hide the fact that you're going to the bathroom, like he's going to be tricked by the towel and just say, "Oh, you must be showering. See you later, just forgot my wallet." But no, once he hears the panic, he jiggles the door even more [because boys are mean] and says, "Uh oh. . . what're you doing in there." - "Go away." - "Is something going on in there?" - "Please go away." - "Are you dropping the kids off?" - "Oh my god." - Then some more talking and laughing, and you resolve to never come out of the bathroom, never, ever again, as long as you both shall live, Amen.)

Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah, stages. Once a person sees another person coming out of your hoo-ha it's all out in the open ya'll. Which I gotta say, is kinda nice. I thought that once we'd hit this stage all the magic would be lost. That suddenly we'd be like roommates instead of a loving couple, but it turns out it's nice to be so comfortable with someone and know they still want to make out with you. You know, if the baby is asleep and you were actually capable of making out before falling asleep with your shoes still on.

A few pics that have nothing do with the blog:


Our last warm day we made it out for a long walk. And by 'we' I mean, I walked, the Pork Chop fell asleep. Lazy.



Someone is very suspicious a lot of the time.



Sneaking a peek.

Happy Halloween!

We told her to work on her scary face and that's the best she could give us.

Scary cute!

My sister found this little monster costume for her when she was here two months ago, and bought it because we call her our little monster. At the time I was like, "Oh my gosh, she's not gonna be big enough in two months to fit into that." Then two days ago I was talking to my sister on the phone and I was like, "I don't think she's gonna be big enough to fit into that." Then magically (witchcraft from Halloween?) I put it on her this morning and it TOTALLY FIT! My little baby fits into 3 month clothes now!!!

Cut to me spontaneously sobbing in the bathroom.

SHE'S GROWING UP SO FAST.

Ok, I can still palm her like a basketball, and she's only 11 weeks old, but still, pretty soon (if I have what's coming to me) she'll be stealing my makeup and lingerie and trying to convince me she never used the fake id, it was just for fun, then somehow I'll get talked into driving her to her friend's house where her boyfriend is secretly waiting to have an hour long make-out sesh with her precious little face, while I wait at home biding my time by reading her not-so-hidden journal and discover she'll have to be grounded until she's 30 but I can't tell her it's because of what I read in her journal because I'll respect her privacy, and because I want her to keep writing in it so I know what's going on, so instead I'll have to make something up like, "You're grounded for not finishing your homework" and she'll be all, "It's summer break.", and I'll be all, "Oh sure. Are you trying to tell me you finished every piece of homework assigned to you last year?", and she'll be all, "What?", and I'll be all, "That's what I thought! Now go to your room!" and then she'll go up there so as not to have to deal with me anymore, plus I'll forget that's where her laptop is, and she'd rather be all interneting with her other boyfriend anyway, and then I'll remember her computer is there, open the door and shout, "Turn that shit off!" and she'll be all, "Dollar!" and I'll have to put a dollar in the cursing jar again, and then she'll start crying and I'll ask why, and she'll explain about her two boyfriends dilemma (one is smart and funny in a Rushmore sort of way, the other is not so smart, but so smoking hot it ruins her brain when she's around him so conversation doesn't seem important with him) and we'll talk about it, and I'll guide her to the right choice (no boyfriend at all! join a nunnery!) (kidding, go with the hot guy, that rushmore guy is just gonna get more indie in college and if she's my daughter [which she is] she's gonna change her mind about 'her type' seven hundred times before she accidentally gets knocked up at 30 and winds up surprisingly with the love of her life she didn't even know she was looking for, and be totally thrilled because he's great, and her baby is great, great and just getting bigger by the second!)

*sigh*

Time goes by so fast.

Now, if you'll excuse me - I have to go hide all my makeup just in case.

10 Weeks!

Someone keeps dressing my daughter like a homeless person.



I mean, what the heck is going on there? And what about here?




Is whoever dressed her color and pattern blind? Or were they just drunk? I mean who did that!?

Oh, right. That was me. But to be fair. .. I was drunk.

Ok, no I wasn't but she didn't start off all Fisher King, she started out in a cute outfit and then proceeded to pee and or poop on pieces of the outfit one at a time until I've changed her into what can only be described as "an art student outfit". And I can say that because I went to school where the professors wore outfits exactly like the one's she has on. Except with more b.o.

Anyway, mismatched outfits aside, ten weeks is better than nine, which was better than eight, which was better than seven, and so on. People tell you that you'll love them more every day and as cliche as it sounds, it's totally true. It doesn't matter that you only get four hours of sleep (not in a row) or that you get pooped on at the same time every day, or that your nipples are so bruised and blistered and slathered with anti-bruise and blister cream that they resemble something out of a horror movie and you can't ever imagine that they'll be viewed in a sexy way ever again - the sheer joy you get from watching them do something as simple as wake up beats everything.

I mean. . . how can this not make your day?





Yes, she did poop in the middle of filming. Sorry about that, but I sorta only get one take.

Now, if you'll excuse me I have to go change someone's pants so that she looks like the lost member of Color Me Badd.

9 weeks!

So my little lady is nine weeks old now!

"I'm not sure why you keep dressing me like a flamboyant fisherman."

Because it's cute, that's why! She's right though, I love that hat but it does sort of make her look like a gay Popeye. Not that there's anything wrong with that, I just don't want to influence her career choices this young.

(Filling out insurance forms - Occupation: Popeye.)

(hahahahahahah)

Anyway, she's nine weeks old but doesn't even weigh nine pounds yet. Teeny, tiny porker! She weighs 8lbs 13oz, which is better than last time, but still pretty tiny for what she's supposed to be I guess. The doctor was kind enough not to let me know he thinks my boobs are defective. Yet. We're going to try another three weeks of guerrilla style breast feeding (wherein I feed her every two hours militaristically. If she sleeps through a feeding she has to drop and give me thirty push ups. I'm not running no sissy boob camp here girl!) and then weigh her again and see where we're at.

The unfortunate thing about the last doctor's visit, aside from the immunizations I already mentioned, is the fact that I went alone. And when I'm alone there's no one there to stop me from rambling, or just talking aloud in general. And sometimes I desperately need someone to stop me. Especially when talking to professionals.

Me: So she's not gaining enough weight?

Dr: Well she's small, but it could just be she's a skinny baby. I mean, you're pretty skinny.

Me: No, I used to be. Now I've got these folds, not even rolls, but weird folds right around here (**motions to my stomach area**) and here (**motions to my thighs**) (Not sure why I included thighs).

Dr: I just mean that you're tall and. . .

Me: Also, I have this weird line on my foldy tummy, that ends at the belly button, and then takes off on the other side of the belly button but from a completely different spot. Like whomever was painting the line got drunk, passed out, then woke up and started five feet away from where they should have started.

Dr: What?

Me: I don't mean someone was literally painting a line on me, I mean the line some women get from pregnancy.

Dr: I know what the line is.

Me: So, do you think my milk isn't fatty enough?

Dr: I don't know if. . .

Me: Because I can step it up with the donuts. I can eat the crap out of some donuts.

Dr: I'm not sure that's exactly how it works.

Me: Ice cream then?

Dr: You can eat all that stuff, but I'm not sure that's the problem.

Me: What?!

Dr: No! Not that there's a problem, just keep doing what you're doing.

Me: But what if the ladies are the problem? (I never refer to my boobs as 'the ladies'. Am totally unsure why I chose this moment to do so. In manner of totally sanity, stop myself from explaining I do not usually go around telling doctor's my boobs are my ladies.)

Dr: (has just said something, probably something important, but I do not hear it because I was stopping myself from being even more inappropriate.)

Me: Mmm. Hmmm. (Is standard response. Hopefully it makes sense to whatever he's just said.)

Dr. . . .

Me: . . . .

Dr: Are you doing ok?

Me: What?

Dr: Emotionally. Are you doing alright?

Me: Who, me? (no, the woman behind me) Yeah. No. Yes I mean. I'm totally fine.

Dr: You sure?

Me: Yeah. Yes. I am fine.

Dr: Ok.

Me: I mean I cry a lot, and I'm not sure if I put on clean socks or not, but I'm good.

Dr: Ok.

And then he sat with me for another minutes until I calmed down.

Clearly I'm fine!!!

He must see this a lot though, because he waited just the right amount of time before leaving. The right amount of time being just long enough that I wouldn't burst into crazy tears, and right before I burst into crazy tears.

Oh, motherhood! It's so fun!

But it really is. Especially because of that little half smile right there.

And this little girl summoning the waiter for the check.

She's been waiting for like a half an hour already!

31 and Pregnant Just Doesn't Have The Same Zing

My sister called me a "young mom" today which was totally not supposed to be a compliment, I think she just forgot I'm not 16 anymore. Which is a problem I'm having too. I'm just a normal aged mom, but in my head I'm totally eligible for 16 and Pregnant, and definitely not as old as my mom was when I was a kid - when I was a kid she was ooooooold. I remember her 36th birthday and how sad I was that she was getting old and we probably didn't have much time left.

And she was older. I think. In the mature sense of the word. I mean, she didn't sit around on a Wednesday eating a hot pocket directly out of the crisping sleeve and watching Selena Gomez videos on youtube while her kids napped. Not that she was old-old, but more mature? More organized? More inclined to veer away from awesomely bad teen pop? More apt to not draw a little mustache on her baby with eyeliner and move her chin up and down to pretend she's speaking in a German accent, ordering people around during bathtime, "Now you schnitzel, get ze zoap and vash me good or I'll have you excommunicated! Sproken! Mazeltoven unt volkswagon nine!"

I'm not sure why, but one of my favorite things to do with my baby is make her talk in a deep man's voice. Usually giving ridiculous orders. Right before this nap she, in a very movie-phone-guy voice, ordered the cat to wash her socks. Pronto! And yesterday she spent a good ten minutes complaining about all the traffic on the way to work. (She doesn't go to work. See? It's funny because she's just a baby!)

"Listen dog, let's say you and me hit the strip club after work. These ones aren't gonna throw themselves."

Oh James-Earl-Jones-sounding baby, dogs aren't allowed in strip clubs!

Yeah, I need to talk to more adults. I'm fully aware.

And so is Sean Connery baby.

Immuniwhyareyouhurtingmybabyzations!

Guess who got her first round of immunizations?

This girl!

And she was not happy about it.

Somehow I forgot that's what we were going to the doctor for, so I went by myself and her father went to work, and when I walked in the nurse is like, "I'm gonna stab your baby today and probably make you cry as well," (at least that's what she should have said) and I immediately thought, "I wonder if her father could run the fifteen miles here in time for this because I'm not sure I can handle it!"

Turns out he couldn't.

Watching someone deliberately hurt your child makes you want to punch them in the face, no matter how nice and sweet the nurse is (and she was very sweet) I still had the overwhelming urge to throw her away from my baby, grab the syringe and poke her in the thigh with it repeatedly yelling, "How do you like that? HOW. DO. YOU. LIKE. THAT." And I know it is for her own good, that a few moments of hurt is better than a lifetime of polio, or the plague - whatever it is immunizations are good for - but at the time I was ready to get in actual hand to hand combat with a woman who probably weighs a good hundred pounds less than me all because she was trying to protect my daughter against scurvy.

I don't want scurvy Mama!

So that makes two times in a row I've cried at the doctor's. Luckily he claimed he didn't even remember last time and said that, "crying moms tend to happen a lot" so he doesn't really keep track of it. And then he launched into a talk about postpartum depression but I didn't hear any of it because I was trying to distract myself from sobbing by noticing how much chest hair he had showing, (it was a lot) and then imagined what it would be like if he braided it (awesome) and beaded the braided bits (amazing) and then did a cabaret-like chest shake while he read off her height and weight percentages to me (like having a musical chest instrument), and then suddenly I was giggling, almost uncontrollably, while he tried to discuss with me the ways I can increase my milk supply, which probably makes him think I am like a twelve year old who can't talk about boobs without giggling my ass off, which is totally untrue, I can talk about boobs with the straightest face you've ever seen, I'm very serious about boobs, braided-beaded-doctor-chest-hair on the other hand is one of the best visuals I've ever had in my entire life, but there's no way I was going to tell him that because I'm pretty sure letting your kid's pediatrician know you were just imagining things about his chest hair could probably be taken the wrong way.

Yay chest hair!!!

So, for her next round of shots her father is coming with me. If not for emotional support then at least so I can have a second opinion on this chest hair business.

Maybe I'll just stay home from that visit guys. You can get the shots, I'll just practice being cute.

Remember Schmemember

This is how the baby helps me bake. By supervising my every move. Then pooping on the counter. How'd it get through both blankets to reach the counter? YOU TELL ME.

So you may remember I talked about Pregnancy Brain, a medical condition (probably) where you lose your marbles and suddenly don't remember who the Vice President is and wind up asking your friends and they look at you with total shock, and possibly distain, not trying to even hide it and placate you a little bit because they're your best friends - apparently knowing you for half your life means they don't have to sugar coat your stupid for you.

Well anyway, apparently it doesn't go away once you have a baby. It just gets way worse. ie; when you breastfeed you're supposed to start on the last boob you ended on. Since the little lady is eating every two hours right now, that means I have to remember back an hour and fifteen minutes and recall whether we were on the left or the right and 9 times out of 10 I stare blankly into space, with absolutely no clue which side she was on. I can't remember something from an hour ago!

So, last week my boyfriend was running a 10k and me and the Pork Chop went down to cheer him on a woman and her baby stopped to say hi, and ask how old she was and blah blah blah, so we talked about out babies and whatnot and then the lady said, "What's her name?"

And I said, "Uhm. . ." and looked at the lady as if she was going to tell me, because I kid you not, I had NO IDEA WHAT MY BABY'S NAME WAS. No clue whatsoever. You could have put a gun to my head and I would still be standing there frozen. And suddenly I started to panic. I looked down at my baby and thought, "Her. She's my baby." But that wasn't what the woman asked. She didn't ask me to point out my baby in some weird criminal-baby-line-up (Oh my god, how cute would a baby line up be?! "Ma'am tell us which one it was." "That one. Number three. She definitely puked on me." Ahhhhhhh! I want it!), she asked me what her name was. Again, more panic and suddenly I couldn't breathe. It was the closest I think I've ever come to actually living a dream - because stuff like that doesn't happen in real life, it happens in dreams and you freak out, and realize you're naked on top of not being able to recall what you named your only child, and then you wake up in a cold sweat, sigh and say, "Oh thank gosh. It was just a dream. Her name is . . . "

AHHHHHH! And then you scream because you still can't remember because it's not a dream!!!! YOU'RE TOTALLY AWAKE! I looked around slowly and said "Uhm. . . " again, hoping this would distract her. And I could feel my boyfriend's mom turn to look at me, and I could feel everyone else start to turn to look because who doesn't remember their baby's name?! And then suddenly, thank God, I sputtered, "Ad. . . Addi . . . Adeline. Her name is Adeline." And then gave a little cough hoping everyone would think I just had something stuck in my throat and that's why it took me so long.

*sigh*

So embarrassing.

To be fair I don't ever call her by her name. Unless she's in trouble.

Which is never because she's a teeny tiny baby!!!

But I have a feeling by the time she hits Jr. High I'll have that name down big time. If she's anything like me she'll be hearing it weekly.

Either that or I'll be yelling, "Missy Porks Chops Chubby Cheeks! You change that outfit right now or you're grounded. No buts! Just change it!"

Oh mom, you so crazy! I love you even if you never remember my name.

Thanks Chops.

Seven Weeks Old!

So our little monster got super monster-y all of a sudden. Very fussy, and upset all the time which could not be consoled, not even the night I breastfeed her for almost FIVE HOURS STRAIGHT.

You wanna see something scary? Go back to that night and peek in my window. It's me sitting on the couch, crying my eyes out because my baby is crying her eyes out, shoving my raw boob in her face, which (admittedly is totally fair) makes her start crying even more, which makes me start crying even more, which makes her father take one more step back away from the Duo of Crazy so that he doesn't get caught in the mix, all the while a glass of wine is staring at me from the coffee table, taunting me because it knows there's no way I'm ever going to drink it this night, not even if she stops crying and goes to sleep, because chances are, at that point my eyes will be so salt-soaked, and puffed together I won't be able to get the glass to my mouth before I spill it down my shirt slash fall asleep mid-sip, which of course it the trigger to waking a sleeping baby thus repeating the whole crying-feeding-saddest-looking-boobs-ever night.

So, of course I start wildly googling 'colic' and 'reflux' and 'fix my baby', and those sites led to me other sites, which led me to other sites, which scare me so that leads me to other sites, and somehow suddenly I'm on my sixth grade ex-boyfriend's facebook page reading all about his cousin's melasma and wondering why I didn't get melasma when I was pregnant. And also wondering how I ended up on Facebook since I don't even have a Facebook page.

Anyway, my point is - do not google stuff when you're worried about your baby.

DON'T DO IT.

Or you'll end up on the phone with your mom, sobbing for no reason, then will look down at your baby and see she's getting black splotches on her skin. Black splotches! That's it, you'll think, she's got a weird skin disease and we'll have to see specialists, and have treatments, and kids will make fun of her but that's ok because it will weed out the good kids from the bad kids and she'll make life long friends with real people who like her despite her black splotches. And then you realize you're sobbing. Right over her. And those black splotches? Those are mascara tears.

Oh the joys of motherhood!

At least I got mascara on that day.

So, I called the doctor the next morning and we brought her in to be looked at and lo and behold, she does not have the 7 million horrible things I thought she did - she just wasn't getting enough to eat.

Oh yeah, 'cause that's better. I'm not feeding her enough. She weighs 8 pounds now, only up a 1/2 pound from three weeks prior, and she should be up about a pound.

Cut to me crying in the doctor's office and he's like:

"It's ok, it's because she's sleeping so much. You might want to just try shortening her naps. No big deal."

And I'm all, " . . . **SOB**. . . "

And he's all, "You're very lucky she's such a good sleeper."

And I'm all, ". . . **SOB** . . " only even louder because I'm starving my baby.

And he's all, " . . . "

And I'm all, "I'll *SOB* try to get more *SOB* feedings in."

And he's all, "Yeah. . . you know it doesn't look good when the mom's walk out of here crying." And then he shot my boyfriend a look like - please can you make her stop. And the boyfriend shot him a look right back that said - are you kidding? Don't you think I'd be doing something about it the past ten months if I knew how?

And then I cried some more, and the Dr stayed with us for about 45 minutes, either because he's very caring and thorough, or because he really didn't want me walking out sobbing - either way it was very nice of him.

I'm not sure how her weight gain is going, we'll find out next week. But I am feeding her all the live long day. Every two hours to be exact. And this is what I get in return:



A sneaky little smile. Just between us.






And this, pure laughter.

You're welcome baby! Mama loves you so much. Raw boobs and all.

Six Weeks Old!

And according to my doctor I can officially now go for a run and have some sex.

(Guess which one I'm more excited about.)

No seriously. Guess.

I'm not gonna tell you, that's personal. Sure I'll tell you about getting shots in my butt, and how the doctor who delivered my little Porks (nickname is awesome. but will be replaced so she doesn't get made fun of. is sad day when we can't call Porks, Porks anymore. is perfect little Porks.) was doing sign language in my vagene, but you do not get to hear about my running/sex life. I have some boundaries.

Hahahahaha No I don't! But I'm still not gonna say out of respect for my family.

You're welcome Porks.

Anyway, I'm not sure how the doctor decided it was ok for normal activities to resume since she didn't really examine me. And by "didn't really examine" I mean, I started to undress and the nurse was like, "Oh no don't bother. Does everything feel ok down there?"

"Uh, yes? Other than the fact that little Porker came out of it six weeks ago it's hunky dory." (I didn't really say 'hunky dory' but I wish I had.)

"Hi Mom? The forties called, they want their slang back."

Then my doctor came in, asked me a few questions, laughed a lot at the fact that I was a screamer in the delivery room, and said, "Well that's it, you look fine. Can I hold the baby?"

And I was like - I look fine? You didn't even glance at my area clothed, let alone examine it naked. What if the baby messed something up, I don't even know what, what if there's two vaginas now instead of one?!?! DON'T YOU WANT TO CHECK ME?

But no. She did not. Apparently if something was wrong I'd feel it.

Whatever.

Modern science my a$#. It's more like a guessing game, but with human lives. And their stretched out private parts.

Stretched out for a good reason!

A very good, six-week old reason.

Four generations in da house!

Our families have been visiting non-stop which has been so nice, and wonderful for us and for Adeline. She gets cuddled all the time, and I get to do things like actually brush my teeth or . . . uhm. . . that's about all I can remember to do lately. But still! Yay clean teeth! I think! I mean, I know I took my toothbrush out but I'm not sure if it's wet because I brushed or because it fell into the pot in the kitchen sink where I was soaking some old bowls full of chili.

Because the kitchen sink? It's where I make us brush our teeth now. Because let me tell you something - when that little lady falls asleep at night there's no way in the world I'm letting us ruin it with something trivial like brushing teeth in our own bathroom. Or peeing. Or changing into pajamas. I'm this close to making us sleep on the floor next to the door of our bedroom because sometimes I'm afraid the blankets will be too loud. Anything that needs to be done before bed has to be done before she falls asleep or you can just go right ahead and sleep in your jeans and boots mister I-have-the-noisiest-shoe-laces-in-the-world!

Yes. It's probably time I put her in her own room.

But I'm not ready yet!

Maybe when she's six years weeks old. Maybe.

Addie and her Auntie Becky.

Addie and her Grandma.

Addie (and me with a cape on apparently) and Tutu!

Five Weeks!

So, you know what I've learned? Babies are sneaky little suckers. Sneaky and tricky. Just when you think you've got it figured out - BAM - your bed gets pooped on twice in one night and you end up sleeping on towels because no one is in the mood to change the sheets at 3am, towels you think are clean because they're in the hamper, only to remember in the morning, the hamper is place you put the dirty towels and these towels you've been sleeping on all night are the ones that got peed on the night before.

Joy of joys!

When we first took our little monster home (I say that fondly. She's the cutest little monster ever. But if you could hear the dinosaur noises that come out of her when she's trying to find the boob, and the wild, grunting head shaking that accompanies it, you would know ' cute monster' is more than appropriate.) she was still brand new and learning how to be in the world so she would eat and sleep. And that's it. And we were both all, "Oh my gosh, having a baby is easy!" And then we probably followed it up with something as equally stupid like, "Metal jumpsuit. Lightning. Large open field. What could go wrong? Hey Cheryl! Get the camera! We're about to dodge God!"

Once she hit about 2 weeks old she was like, "Oh hey, I can be awake? Awake a lot? Interesting. Lets do this sh&t!" Enter the dark circles under my eyes that makes it look as though I am routinely beaten. By Rocky. And his Russian nemesis.

She'll go from this:

Hi! Oh my gosh I'm gorgeous and cute and I love you Mama.

To this:

I HATE BATH TIME!

To this:

I'm so sleepy and cute. I love you Mama.

To this:

I HATE THIS!

Sorry, that's the same picture, but usually when she's crying I don't have time to snap a loving shot of it. Usually I'm too busy dodging the rocketing poop that accompanies the screams, as well as trying not to get punched in the eye by her extremely strong, flailing limbs.

My point is, apparently babies do not just eat and sleep their whole lives. I should have known this, but apparently I was under the impression they went from eating and sleeping to toddler like magic. Turns out - not so much.

I mean, she's only five weeks old. She's still a teeny tiny little thing. But my god can that woman scream. And unfortunately at 3am when she's being changed and the lights are on and suddenly, out of nowhere she lets out a blood curtling yell all her father and I do is giggle. Because it's so out of the blue and it's so pissed it seems as though we missed something. And then she catches sight of the ceiling fan and all screaming comes to a dead halt.

She loooooooves the ceiling fan.

Sure I'll sit in this car seat, as long as you leave me here right under the fan.

Hey Dad, I'm a little concerned about my fan. Have you seen - oh there it is! Hi fan!

Excuse me Mr. Giraffe? You're not looking at the fan. Any reason why not? Don't be rude.

Hi fan. I love you.

So if you walk by our house at 4am, and catch one of us holding the little lady up to the ceiling like a weird version of the Lion King that is why. Because it calms her down.

It may end up as her crib mobile. I'm just saying.