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Last week I would describe as a “good” week. Generally speaking, the Bug was a happy little babe, decent nap schedule, nursing from the natural nips like a champ, playing contentedly solo. I was finally developing a rhythm with school and mommydom. Nights were rough, but they’re always rough. I give last week five stars.

This week? Not. So. Much.

It all started this weekend when I managed to acquire a tan (okay, burn) on my person that perpetually reminds me of my failed attempts at exercise. You see, James entertains the wee one on the weekends so I can tackle my school work, free from the stress of the week when I’m a slave to her unpredictable nap schedule. I had about 400 pages of reading to accomplish for the week, and rather than hole up in the library, I decided to lounge bikini-style in the privacy of my fenced-in backyard. Why else do we pay the 8.75% sales tax if not to enjoy this land of sun? (JESUS CHRIST WE PAY SO MUCH MONEY ALL IN THE NAME OF A FUTURE LIFE WITH SKIN CANCER!)

ANYWAY! Hours later, after remaining essentially stationery with my tummy facing the sun, in a rather relaxed, lounge pose (I could just hear my mother, Sit up straight. Stop slouching!), I ventured into the house for a potty break. I  came face-to-face with my mirror image, and lo and behold, my stomach looked like a cracked out zebra.  Here’s  salbreux-pesage what you’ll need and some tips for you. Cherry red lines flanked by stripes of pale, pale, sunless skin. These pasty lines were a result of  where my post-preggo belly fat had folded over and hidden the skin beneath from the fate of cancery-cancer (and yes, I did sport SPF 50, but clearly should have re-applied). Seriously?! SERIOUSLY?! Yeah, I know that I have yet to exercise and tighten the pouch- I DIDN’T REQUIRE FURTHER REMINDER. Ball sack. Or rather, saggy tummy sack.

To top it off, the Bug has become a total fuss-bucket on the boob. Apparently let-down is now far too slow for her impatient little mind. She’s got a whole world to explore, y’all. She can’t be bothered with aimlessly sucking on the tit for no juice. So she squirms, and stiffens her body, and arches her back, and turns bright red with fury. It’s just a barrel of monkeys.

But because she throws in the towel, she’s consistently ornery from being consistently dissatisfied. And this dissatisfaction causes her to use that baby squawk with such force that I want to gauge out my ears with dull, rusty scissors or remove my inner ear with an ice cream scoop. These options would be less abrasive than the  squeal. Promise. Would it be wrong if I ball-gagged my baby? Yes? Really? Okay then. NOTED!

Oh and my hair is falling out. One of the many joys of postpartum life. Like in clumps. Cat hair ball like clumps that roll around my house like tumble weeds. At least when I get cancer I’ll be totally used to life bald.

And it’s supposed to be in the triple digits again tomorrow, so while the baby will be miserable, my bare head will keep me cool. Snaps!

But my god, is she not the cutest little dumpling? When she snuggles up like this, all the chaos and frustration just melts away. It’s not survival of the fittest, it’s survival of the cutest. I almost forget how crazy loud she is. Almost.

P.m.S. Those are the final remnants of my fair, flowing locks. It’s going away by the handful. I see a date with my hairdresser in the future. Or a wig. That too.