Blog a la Cart

Yet another post about boobs (with a dash of booty)

Today marked Day #2 of Operation: Find Addison a Babysitter. Neither Charles Manson nor Ted Bundy appeared on my doorstep, so I am feeling confident that there is a sane, drug-free soul in the world to tend to my child in my absence. It doesn’t mean I haven’t hidden 200 video cameras discreetly around the house… because I’m not paranoid or anything… ugh… anyway…

The event of  the day occurred when I attempted to utilize the dreaded breast pump during Addison’s waking hours. I didn’t have time during her nap, what with prepping dinner, and doing laundry, and putting away dishes, and showering. Tons of super glamorous activities that are best accomplished sans wakeful babe.

We’ve been desperately trying to give the Bug a bottle or two every day so that she’s fully adjusted to the damn things before a babysitter is stuck with her for 12 hours with no MOMMY BOOB as assistance in T-2 weeks. To say the least, she is not pleased with this new addition to her life. She gives the stink eye, constantly, during the process and 99% of the milk winds up dripping down James’ arm rather than in her mouth. And she spends the majority of the time squawking like Scuttle instead of sucking. She’s taking to the whole process like a cat to water. Apparently the SYNTHETIC NIPPLE SHIELD she’s been using on my boob hasn’t prepared her for a FAKE NIPPLE on a bottle. Weird? Apparently not. My boob nipple is the JUMBO, lazy-man’s nipple, while the one on the bottle is designed to mimic the shape of a real female nipple, which as we know, she has not been using. Remember, my nips are defunct.

Moving on.

So, she hates the bottle. It stole her lunch money and shoved her in a locker. But we’re working on reconciliation, and slowly but surely she’s coming around.

Thus, I needed to pump today. I fueled the Bug up first with one boob so that she’d be all filled with milk and thus drunkenly-blissful for at least five minutes. Then I lay her on the bed beside me, locked the pump to my chest, opened up my computer to peruse the latest headlines and my fav blogs while milking away. All was going well, until Addison decided to share with the world her rendition of Scuttle a la “KISS DA GIRL.” I dangled toys above her, sang silly songs, made funny faces, all whilst my nip was spraying milk like a fire hose. No joke. That pump gets shit GOING!

Then Ursa started getting needy because of all the songs and high-pitched ridiculousness happening for Sunny’s amusement. She began pacing, and whining, and trying to leap up on the bed; my response was to pin her down with my right foot, petting her butt and feeding her starved-for-attention state of mind with my toes. But then the Bug started doing her rage-filled pig squeal, so with my one free hand I stood her up against my chest and she promptly got showered down by my non-pumping boob that was leaking because when one gets juiced up, the other falls in line. Ready for battle. It’s a team effort here at chest chez Ashley.

Clearly, the Bug was not thrilled with her milk saturated shower. My solution? I flipped her into the football hold and shoved the bare, sprinkler-boob in her mouth. She was thoroughly confused, what, with the JUMBO nipple missing, but sucked it up (jokes!). At this point, I am topless, palming my baby like a football, forcing her to deal with a REAL human nipple, while the other nipple is suctioned-vacuum style through a tube, filling a vile of milk and the dog pads blissfully underneath my petting foot. As I am stuck in this rather compromising position, my landlord pops his head in the door to announce his arrival. Big mistake. I’m sure that he’s so scarred by the image that he will NEVER make the mistake of not knocking. ever. again.

And the day gets even better…

I took a little break while writing this very post to nurse the baby before bedtime. I’m curled up on the bed with her, and James rolls in with a tub of homemade strawberry ice cream (because we have become OBSESSED with our ice cream maker. So much delicious dairy at our fingertips. I don’t know why we didn’t invest in such a brilliant piece of machinery sooner). He’s feeding me a small slice of heaven, and we invite Ursa on the bed, and it’s one giant family affair. James surrounded by his ladies, all cozy and happy. (Cue the unicorns, rainbows, daisies and lollipops). We are that generic family photograph found in all picture frames.

Then James decides to share a nib of the ice cream with Ursa who is gazing at us so adoringly, her ears pricked forward, puppy-eyes in full effect. Like Puss-in-Boots in Shrek. You KNOW what I’m talking about. He places a hunk of frozen strawberry on her tongue, and there’s a pause, and then a gag and then that awful urping sound that cues the vomit. He quickly pushes her down on the  floor, and she proceeds to barf ALL OVER the ONE area rug in the ENTIRE room. And to add fuel to the fire, she’s managed to nail our bed leaping to the floor, and James proceeds to roll in it as he’s getting up to clean up the puke. His response? He flings off his vomit-soaked boxers and proceeds to exit the room donning a neon pink, Piggly Wiggly shirt, naked buns hanging in the breeze. As he stalks out of the room to grab cleaning supplies, I see the words I’M BIG ON THE PIG flanked above two bare ass cheeks.

Priceless.

The stink eye

I finally caught the stink eye on camera. You see, the bug is learning to roll over, but not so sure how she feels about this new adventure.  She can raise just one eyebrow like her daddy. James’ eyebrows have two distinct personalities. The right eyebrow raise creates a quizzical expression while the left eyebrow raise creates a sinister one. Currently, the bug’s eyebrows both equally express concern, confusion, and disgust; such as when the freshly cleaned nipple shield enters her mouth and she’s not feeling the soapy aftertaste. I tell ya, it’s every woman’s dream to have her nipple scoffed at and rejected.

Our little angel

She’s so deceptive, this one. She looks all perfectly angelic by day, but then grows horns and a tail for the witching hour, i.e. our bedtime. We just adore being awoken by the little devil every two hours. all. night. long.

Operation: Find Addison a Babysitter.

Day 1 of Operation: Find Addison a Babysitter. I can tell this week shall be ripe with material.

When interviewing to babysit my daughter, my wee one, my little bug, the apple of my eye, my precious child, the being that I obsessively and compulsively check on in the middle of the night, 800 times per night, because I need affirmation that she is alive, do not admit that you’ve applied to over 25 houses to babysit their children and upon seeing  your resume never hear back from the parents. It’s a turn off. And a poor interviewing strategy.

Also, admitting that you have a two year old who doesn’t ever go to bed before midnight does not bode well in terms of your scheduling ability with a child.

Next!

The Giggle.

It has been captured. In live, streaming video. For all to enjoy.

Apparently we have a little camera-ho on our hands, because wanna know what brought her such delight? Zooming the camera in and out on her face. A budding actress in LA? What a cliché!

Food for Thought

Today I discovered an immense amount of dirt under the Bug’s finger nails, which leads me to two conclusions:

1. I clearly am not maintaining the weekly nail clipping routine recommended by our pediatrician. Such build up would not be possible if I were. But her hands are so wee and dainty, it freaks me to take such machinery to them. I’d rather she scratch the shit out of her face than accidentally clip off a finger! No one wants to be the digit-less kid in school. Valid, am I right?

2. She obviously has been waking up at 3:30am so that she can eat a hearty breakfast before heading out to the farm to till the fields. Because HOW ELSE DOES AN INFANT GET DIRT UNDER HER NAILS?!

(3. Or I need to get a housekeeper, STAT)

Off to hang out in my immaculately clean home. Cheerio!

Say Cheese!

I forced her to take a photo with me, and as you can see, she was thrilled. She already resents me. I’m so ready for the angsty, teen years.

That hair!

I’m a lists kind of gal. I write lists for any and everything. My type-A, first-born personality relishes the feeling of accomplishment upon scratching off an item situated among an array of tasks displayed in a vertical line on yellow legal pad. Relishes. There is nothing I love more (except maybe Ben & Jerry’s Half Baked ice cream and the smell of a sea breeze). I write lists for everything. And I mean everything. Not just for the grocery store, or Christmas gifts, or thank you notes; for inane everyday tasks, like oh say, waking up, showering, eating breakfast, wiping my ass, putting on deodorant, etc.

Given that I am entering my third year of what some may refer to as unemployment (although I prefer the phrase “alternative work”), my day’s are HIGHLY unstructured, so my lists guarantee I at least semi-resemble a functioning, productive member of society. I’ve become especially addicted to lists now that I am wrought with mommy-brain. In order to keep my life straight, I must have reminders for my daily routine. My current TO DO list looks something like this, with lovely reasons why each task must be accomplished in case I forget with all the poop, and spit up, and breast milk plugging up my neuro-synapses:

1. Get your ass out of bed by 9am (or whenever the hell the baby wakes up. She’s the boss. You’re the nuts*).

2. Shower (or at least put on natural roll on deodorant. Remember you made your daughter smell like an armpit)

3. Floss (because you can’t afford a trip to the dentist, you uninsured-ho)

4. Take the dog to the park (you will regret it later if you don’t. The reign of Ursa-energy terror).

5. Exercise, particularly CRUNCHES (because you got knocked up and have the poodge to show for it) and last week I got the best thermogenic fat burner to help me achieve my weight goals.

6. Eat breakfast (or you’re daughter will become the poster-child for a 1-800 number and donations in the form of $1/day).

You get the idea.

I’ve made this particular list electronic thanks to the wonders of iPhone applications. And to try to cut down on my daily paper waste, because with the amount of list writing I do I could take out a small forest in a week.

I began a new list today detailing the pros and cons of having a baby with long-flowing locks. Yes, her hair. Her most distinctive characteristic. Everywhere I go I cannot escape the inevitable “THAT HAIR! OH MY GOD!” reaction. And I go through the same conversation every time: Yes, she was born with it. No, it sticks up on its own. No product. (Who the hell puts hair gel on an infant?!) Yes, I had that kind of hair when I was born. No, my husband and I are both blonde.

So here it is folks, the pros and cons of the BabyHawk:

Cons:
1. Everyone thinks you are a little boy because the hair has grown in like a boy’s haircut. I mean everyone. Until I obnoxiously deck you in pink and frills and bows. And then your daddy vomits in a corner.

2. Daddy vomiting in a corner because of the pink, and bows, and frills.

3. You pull your own hair. Constantly. And you howl and scream in horror and stare at me pleadingly to make the evil demon who is wreaking havoc on your scalp stop. You wake yourself up doing this. And it’s getting worse now that grasping objects has become quite intriguing. Especially soft, wispy tufts of YOUR OWN HAIR!

4. It’s terrifying to watch a blob of black, slimy, placenta ridden hair get squeezed out of your vagina. It’s the stuff of horror movies. Birth is crazy enough as it is. Throw in hair and you’ve got Hell Razor or Dr. Giggles crashing L&D.

5. You’re hair gets greasy. Every. Single. Day. You look like a little hobo baby whose parents don’t have the decency to bathe you even though we do so religiously every night.

6. When you fall asleep nursing and let breast milk pool out of your mouth and spill onto your check it gets encrusted in your hair. And then you smell of sour milk. Sour milk + B.O. + grease= HOBO BABY!

7. People judge mommy when they see your deep, dark roots and then the blonde, blonde, blondest of blonde-ness that is your father. Forcing me to admit that YES, I HIGHLIGHT MY HAIR! WE AREN’T ALL BLESSED WITH GOLDEN LOCKS! I PAY FOR THIS SHIT! (And thanks so much for insinuating adultery, asshole).

8. Knowing from the get-go that I will similarly have to finance the highlighting of your ‘do. An Addison Hair Fund has already been established. Donations welcome.

Pros:
1. Um, maybe the cutest of cute cute pictures. Case and point.

2. You have gained acceptance into the punk rock crowd to which mommy and daddy will never be welcome.

3. No need for styling product. Ever.

4. It’s the one trait the resembles your mother, given that everything else about you screams CART! (except maybe your monster feet, those are mine too)

5. A conversation starter even in the most awkward of social situations. (Soooo, that baby has some wild hair, eh?)

6. The bows! Oh the little girl bows. You’re a living doll.

7. You blend. My little Cali, trendy, rocker baby.

8. So soft and utterly delicious. I just want to eat you up after bath time when the soap aroma clings to each strand. Nothing could be more delectable (maybe it’s a con that I want to eat my baby? Question mark?)

And there you have it folks. Additions welcome.

*When my brother was little he used to tell my mother, “I’m the boss, you the nuts” because apparently my mother used to utter the following two phrases to him with some consistency. “I’m the boss. You’re driving me nuts.” So it got thus interpreted.

A tasty treat

This here baby smells delicious. Can I have a taste? Just a little nib?

Food for thought

It was bad enough that one of my go-to “pros” for pregnancy- the whole not-having-your-period-for-9-months thing- got thrown out the window when I hemorrhaged for six weeks straight post-childbirth. But now this! One of the alleged perks of breastfeeding? NO PERIOD which means NO BIRTH CONTROL which means NO WORRYING ABOUT A WATERMELON SHOOTING OUT OF YOUR LADY PARTS.

Today, however, Auntie Flow decided to demystify that mythical legend. Thanks, Flow, for killing Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy ALL IN ONE DAY!

Leaky boobs + leaky vagina= not fair. Just saying.