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