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First Day of School

When one returns to her first day of graduate studies, with a wee babe in tow, the following with undoubtedly occur:

1. While meeting a new professor with whom said student is to serve as a Teaching Assistant, the babe will experience a flatulence unmatched by an orchestra of tubas, french horns and trombones. This cacophony of toots shall end with a blow out that coats both baby and mother in a slick film of yellow baby poop, abruptly halting the rendez-vous with the student’s new employer.

2. While speaking with one’s male adviser, her milk will come raging into the nipples with such force that the student feels as though she is going to rocket across the room and fears hosing her adviser in the eye with the class 4 rapids of milk gushing through her ducts. And to top it all off, she will have forgotten to place breast pads in her brazier, causing this river to drip like a leaky faucet and puddle at her feet mid-conversation. En route to the bathroom to tend to the flood, she will leave a trail of her presence like Hansel & Gretel, except it shall be milky, rather than crumby, in nature.

3. While braving the quiet, studious peace of the library to retrieve a book for one’s first reading assignment of the new semester, the babe will awake from her deep slumber with a fury and rage that shakes the entire building of books, lap tops and intellectual rigor. So much so, that a librarian requests that said student and baby exit the premises, and quickly.

4. While feeding the babe in solitude in the student lounge, the building’s maintenance man will strut in the door right as her boob is out in broad daylight with the SUPER NIPPLE being placed to the skin, screaming like a neon sign PAY ATTENTION TO ME! The poor man will never be able to look said student in the eye. Ever. Again.

But this little one wouldn’t know anything about such experiences.

I almost went down from snack food.

I almost died today.

Thanks to an almond.

Seriously. Who wants that shit on their epitaph.

Everything was going swimmingly. The Bug slept a whopping FIVE HOURS STRAIGHT last night so I was filled with energy and pep. Like one of those jazzercise instructors. I just needed some leg warmers and a sweat band and a rocking ’80s perm. Seriously, I could have run a marathon with the babe strapped to my back while pulling Ursa behind in a wagon (although, she would never sit still long enough for such tomfoolery.)

So, right, I was jazzy.

And then I stepped on the scale, and I was down to my pre-pregnancy weight. Right on! So I slipped on my pre-preggo jeans and they fit like a glove! BOO YA! but still have to keep up with my body, so I’m learning how to suppress appetite and stick up with my routine.

(It is worth mentioning that my figure is in no way the same shape as it was pre-baby. That would require serious exercise, and I’m still milking the whole recovery-from-a-truck-coming-out-my-lady-hole thing.)

What I’m getting at is that things were going my way. Until 5pm. That is the hour of the day when the Bug typically gets cranky and sick of my face, and I’m exhausted from a day of diapers, and boobs, and the wails of a discontent infant. Nursing usually shuts her up at this time, so I saddled her up to the boob and settled into the rocking chair, while snacking on some sesame seed, honey covered almonds. (If you haven’t tasted these bad boys, get your ass to Trader Joe’s and thank me later).

Mid snack, an almond goes down the pipe just the wrong way, so I began to gag and cough and sputter, my eyes welling with tears, my body jolting and jarring and flailing about. Of course, the Bug is starfishing all over my lap thanks to her startle reflex and starring at me in horror as I try to get the god-forsaken nut out of my wind pipe. The whole time I’m thinking, “Ashley, you cannot die now. You will fall over and smother your child and that’s infanticide. You do not want to go down via snack food as a baby killer.” After what seems like an eternity, the nut comes surging back up, and as I’m gasping for air, reassuring my perturbed child that her mommy is okay, that ever so adoring child raises her right eyebrow, does the infant head shake like she is an animal trying to break the neck of its prey, and dives back on to my boob. The Velociraptor strikes again. She’s all, “Yeah, you better not die, I wasn’t done with my snack.”

Then the dog comes racing in the room, and I assume it is her canine instinct sensing that her master is in distress, like Lassie. Except, as Ursa peels into the room at lightening speed, her nose hits the ground and she scarfs up the nibblets of almond bits that have spewed out of my mouth while choking.

I AM A HUMAN SNACK MACHINE! Literally.

I can see it now. James returns home from work to find his wife keeled over in a rocking chair with his infant ravenously sucking from her lifeless breast, desperately inhaling every last drop before the well is dry, while the dog licks her for the salt.

The word ‘dependents’ took on a whole new meaning today.