Blog a la Cart

Backed up.

Those of you that follow me on Twitter are well aware that we’ve had a situation of sorts on our hands. The bazooka was backed up. And by backed up, I mean 9 days sans evacuation.

My belly aches just thinking about it.

9 DAYS! 9 days without so much as a pooplet, nay a shart!

When we hit the week mark, I began to get mildly anxious despite no sign of malcontent in the Bug. She’s still exclusively breastfed, producing wet nappies (god I love the British), eating on her regular sched, soft tummy. All the signs that point to a happy, healthy, NOT constipated baby. I’d been warned that a breastfed baby might not poop for days, but when we started getting into weeks, I became a little more than suspect.

Have you seen the show Hoarders? It’s horrifying. And I thought the Bug might be developing a comparable complex. With her shit. You can see why I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable.

Obviously, I tweeted about this debacle to get some feedback from my fellow parental units, namely moms, on this crap (pun INTENDED!) I was reassured by many a mother whose children had gone up to 11… yeah like 1, 2, 3, 4,… I’M NOT EVEN GOING TO GO THERE IT’S TOO MANY!… days without a movement. And as far as I could tell, the child survived and had not turned into a living terd. Someone even informed me that a breastfed baby can go up to 21 DAYS without pooping. It’s like reverse fasting or some shit. I confirmed with my doctor, who assured me that unless I started noticing signs that she was uncomfortable, or straining and failing to poop, that I should just give her a lil prune juice, and hunker down.

And hunker down I did. I empathized with the agoraphobs of the world. I’ve been terrified to leave the house for the past three days for fear of what was in store. I knew that the instant our bodies were more than 50 feet from the washing machine and bathtub, we were doomed. So I waited it out. And waited. And then was told that maybe I should drink some prune juice to speed things along. So I considered just plugging my nose and shooting it back collegiate style, when @BananaramafoFin suggested I class it up and mix a cocktail of half prune, half Pelligreno. And so class it up I did.

After much gas and sounding like a living Evinrude, we finally had signs of progress with a shart. And then this morning we had mini-poo, as if to foreshadow what was coming down the pipe.

And let me tell you, what occurred this afternoon was of epic proportions. It may or may not have crusted into the crevasses of fatty baby rolls and armpits in ways unmatched  by previous bowel movements. Baths were had, clothes were set aflame in a trash bin out back, and balance was attained, yet again, in the cosmos. Addison’s bowels have some sway with the universe, y’all.

Now, we have our Halloween game faces on. Poop-scare behind us, we may join in the holiday haunts to our hearts’ and bums’ content.

And, no, this is not her costume, my little hippie, but a legit outfit my mother sent us. And I am obsessed. Obv.

Life vertical rocks. And is exhausting.

As I mentioned yesterday, the Bug’s sleep habits have been less than consistent given this new fangled development called “rolling over.” If there was an Olympic sport for this activity, Addison would surely win the gold. Not for skill, but rather for the most asinine creative method to accomplish such a task. I’m talking an Ariel-style chest lift followed by a dramatic leading-with-the-head and then a whirling of the body like the Tazmanian Devil. So inefficient. So exaggerated. So over dramatic. So she’s-going-to-be-her-mother-before-she-knows-it.

Similarly, given her ever-developing musculature, the swing is becoming less and less a viable option for sleep. Twice now I have peeked into the nursery, expecting to see a sleeping Bug, to find that she has awoken but has not announced this state of consciousness and is instead trying to hurl herself out of said swing. The grunting as she contracts those baby abdominals and careens herself forward is quite impressive- like James, on the toilet. (Yeah, I went there.) However, this new habit of infant 7-minute abs is less than safe. So the swing is on the outs.

This means that sleep has been few and far between. And crankiness at an all time high. One of the few activities that keeps the wee one appeased during this fitful stage is time spent vertical, as in standing, as in SWEET GOD WHY ARE WE ENCOURAGING EARLY WALKING. It’s like we WANT our lives to be over. We purchased a bouncy seat to further this leg development slash apocalypse, and my god it’s like a techni-colored babysitter. She loves that shit. Granted, she may learn to walk with a limp as she bounces SOLELY on her left leg, but details. It’ll slow this whole baby in motion thing, thus prolonging my life. And that is a beautiful thing.

She loves it so much, in fact, that she bounced herself into sleep-filled oblivion just yesterday.

Bouncing is exhausting work people.

I was in the office writing a midterm paper blogging, and I got a text from the babysitter (who had been struggling ALL DAY to get her to nap. Welcome to MY LIFE!) and it read: “Addison bounced herself to sleep :)” I immediately crept into the house to witness this event firsthand and managed to gather evidence. You’re welcome. (Actually, the sitter is responsible for the live action footage. Thank her).

The word of the day is Asshat.

It’s been quiet here at BlogalaCart, so I may now just be writing into the abyss that is the Internet.

Is anybody listening to me?

What is a horse shoe? What does a horse shoe do? Are there horse socks?

<If you understood that reference then NO I WILL NOT MAKE OUT WITH YOU!>

Anyway, I figure I’ll write regardless of whether I still have any readership- as I desperately need an outlet from the intensity that has been my life over the past couple weeks. To those still out there, THANKS FOR STOPPING BY!

There are a variety of things that have caused this hiatus, including:

A. We’ve been inundated with visitors, including a brother from North Carolina, a brother from Ohio and a dear friend from Philly. Yeah, we’re a diverse crowd here chez Cart. Just call us the poster children of geographic diversty… er sumfin. Having visitors in town is a joyous excuse to explore all the touristy bits of LA without looking like a local asshole roaming around Catalina Island or whooping it up at the Diz (yes, as in Disneyland. And on that note, might I say that motherhood has made me one wimpy bitch. I got nauseous on the roller coaster at California Adventure and felt like a total asshat. Because that’s what people who can’t stomach rollercoasters are. AssHats. Yeah, I said it. Moving on.) With limited time spent at the house and an effort to not look like an even bigger asshat writing blogs while my guests sat idly by, the opportunity to post has been at an all time low.

B. It’s MIDTERMS, folks! Which means lots and lots and APPALLING amounts of reading and writing. In fact, I have a paper due Friday that I am supposed to be diligently composing as I type this. I’m viewing this writing opportunity as my “warm up.” Like stretching before a grand athletic performance- I’m sure that my professors will buy that excuse when I explain why my paper has to be turned in late due to hours spent blogging about my boobs instead of theorizing on the implications of culture practice in the public sphere. Tots the same thing.

C. The Bug has learned to roll over, like a lot. As in, all the god damn time. Like say, while she’s sleeping, whether it be a midday nap or in the middle of the night. This means lots of disgruntled screaming when she wakes herself up from literally hurling her body around and into the crib bumpers and very little sleep or down time for me and James. I suggested that we tie her down to her mattress like they do with crazy people in psychiatric wards, but James wasn’t really feeling it. I ask you, what’s so wrong with restraining your baby in the name of slumber? NOTHING!

All of these glorious factors have added up to ZERO opportunity for blogging. But today, while filled with anxiety and stress and a dash of OH MY FUCKING GOD I’M NEVER GOING TO GRADUATE, I decided to take a moment, share a story and then refocus.

If you didn’t realize, this blog is my sanity. In that it grounds me, and let’s me process the shit show that is motherhood. So hey, thanks for listening and being my therapist. You probably could charge me some $500 for reading each post, but I dare you to try and bill me. Cedars Sinai keeps trying- go ahead and ask them how that’s going.

And on that note, I’m out. I have some stories banked that include rock hard boobs, raspberries, a backed up bazooka and hosing in the face (this time with actual water not breast milk. Shocking, I know), so basically the usual. Par for the course. I’ll save those for another day.

Here’s the Bug looking quite joyous in her pool with Ann Mae. That was when it was still warm and glorious just days ago- now it’s like, what, 60 degrees? and I’m bundled in wool slippers, a down jacket and furry earmuffs because that’s what life in Southern California does to you. Turns you soft.

Like I could be a bigger asshat.

So now I’m going to go and work on that midterm due Friday… before my babysitter leaves me with the fully loaded bazooka. Yeah, it’s been 8 days since the last bowel movement. BRACE YOURSELVES LOS ANGELES!

Old Yeller

Rather, it should be New Yeller, as five months hardly constitutes as old, however, these vocal expressions have been developing for quite some time, making us all feel as though this yelling is just a customary part of our lifestyle chez Cart.

When I said that the girl’s got some pipes, I truly meant it. It doesn’t help that my dear friend Ann Mae is in town, and between the three of us, we could be heard on Mars. The competition for loudest, most prominent female in the house is at an all time high- and James has been sporting his hunting earplugs accordingly. It’s a survival mechanism, no doubt.

Here’s our budding opera diva, or future CEO. Either way, she won’t be ignored.

5 Months.

Dearest Munchkin Pie,

Oh yes, the fifth month of your life shall go down in the books as the month of the Pig. Oink!

We survived swine flu, and antivirals, and belly aches and explosions of stinky stinky STINKY formula, and even a pathetic little baby dragon cough. While experiencing you sick for the first time scared mommy (not so much your cool-as-a-cucumber-daddy), I was more terrified by the effect that formula had on your bitty, developing digestive system, as did daddy. We were warned that formula was a smelly affair, but truly, it was as if a rotting, roadkill carcass soaked in garbage festering in a New York City subway during the summer had been placed squarely inside your erupting rumpus. Disturbing to say the least. And mommy is more convinced than ever that breastmilk truly is magical, mystical, liquid gold, as she finds no other explanation for why your wee, baby immune system did not wind up big on the pig. Thank the baby Cheez-its.

In other news, your motor development skills are off the chain. Those dexterous fingers of yours nearly ripped a small, hoop of an earring through my fleshy earlobe. This caused much anxiety and screaming, and the removal of any and all earrings from my person until you are at least 20 years of age and can control such ninja-death-grip urges. I don’t need to have TWO double earlobes happening on my already deformed ears, thank you very much.

Tummy time still causes you much rage, and you prefer to have us support you upright, enjoying the world from a vertical stance. Those chunky thighs have become quite strong, and you now pad your feet while standing as THOUGH ATTEMPTING TO TAKE STEPS! As in, propel yourself forward. As in, my life is over. My fear that you shall be an early walker, and skip crawling all together, grows by the day. Don’t you know that YOU WON’T BE ABLE TO READ if you don’t crawl.

Okay, I don’t buy it for a second. But daddy keeps swearing that some huge developmental loss is going to occur if you decide that life on two limbs is better than a life on four. The benefit is that we won’t have to worry about dirty, banged up hands and knees. However, all of our wedding gift knick knacks shall be thrown from their low-shelved placement in our home. They are trembling in fear.

And because of your love of standing, we caved and purchased yet another tacky toy for your pleasure. A ridiculous, rain forest-themed jumping thing-a-ma-bob, that lights up and makes noise and has eight million play stations in primary-colored delight. Our sore arms get about 10 minutes of respite thanks to that sucker a day. And boy is it worth it.

Drinking glasses and bottles of any variety are by far the most exciting, thrilling, joy-inspiring of objects since mommy’s boob and Sir Mortimor the Sheep. Beer bottles, wine glasses, cups filled with OJ. You don’t discriminate. They all cause you to forcefully thrust your arms forward and grab and swat and pull to your lips. You are a wonderful party trick. Isn’t it lovely that we are pimping out your early interest in alcohol for the amusement of our friends? Where is social services on this one?

Moving on.

You have become a champion sleeper. Granted, the only time you show any interest in tummy time is when we lay you in your crib to sleep and you INSTANTLY hurl yourself onto your tummy and blissfully nod off to dreamland.

OMG! SIDS! WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!

We routinely try to flip you back on your back, but your resolve is unstoppable, and you truly are your mother’s daughter in that you cannot rest anywhere but on your belly. (Just wait til pregnancy, love. Your tummy-sleeping-world shall be ROCKED. Causing insomnia for at least four mouths, and then you’ll have a child that will ensure further sleep deprivation. It’s totally awesome. Trust me).

But you now know how to sooth yourself to sleep, and although I want to slit my leaky tits ever time I hear Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata in 1st (as we now play it on repeat, ALL NIGHT LONG, EVERY NIGHT, to ease you to slumber), it seems to do the trick. A typical night has you sleeping, without interruption, from 8:30pm to 6am. And it is revolutionary.

And your hair is finally long enough that it has gone limp. As in, flaccid. As in, the hipster crowd shall no longer revere you. <sigh> We knew that day was coming.

Your toes became the most thrilling of discoveries this month. You suck on those bad boys like a delectable popsicle and look like a baby monkey or circus performer in the process. It has made diaper changes more of a challenge, but they cause you such delight, I am always hesitant to stop you, thus allowing a flood of urine leakage all over the changing table with some frequency.

Ah, the things we do in the name of cuteness.

Speaking of cuteness. Something that is anything BUT cute is the further development of your shrill shriek that has become much more like a thirteen year old girl’s death scream, or your father’s response to seeing a spider. It is so high pitched that you make Ursa run away in pain and mommy’s ears bleed. It was particularly magical when you chose to entertain a plane of passengers in this capacity on our cross-country flight from DC to LA. Six long hours of Addison’s moment in the spotlight. Waterboarding would have been more appealing. No more flying for quite some time. At least until you can listen to reason.

Whether or not you do in fact listen is an entirely different story.

But despite your intense vocalizations, mommy just cannot get enough of you and the crazy rate of your development and little personality. I spend hours each day just watching you in utter amazement. You are magic. Pure and simple.

The stomping and splashing and playing in your bathtub (that has now been moved into the bathroom to avoid a flood).

The smacking, gurgling, raspberry-filled playing with your mouth as you learn all the wonderful ways to elicit noise and communicate.

Those sweet smiles and sighs that you send my  way upon catching my eye.

The way you reach for my face and cradle it in your baby palms.

The giggles when Ursa licks your face.

Nothing could be more delightful. Slow down, little one, mommy can barely keep up.

Happy 5 months, tacky toys and all!

143 Mama

Strawberry Shortcake and Blueberry Muffin

Everyday, Addison’s eyes look more and more like two, round blueberries. And Auntie Kimmy just may get that red head she’s been gunning for. There’s all sorts of strawberry coming in those long, flowing strands of hers.

She will blend it wonderfully with the whole Strawberry Shortcake clan. She best watch out for the Peculiar Purple Pie Man of Porcupine Peak. If you know that 80s reference, I love you all the more.

Here’s a peek at the Bug during a rare, mellow moment. Just seconds after turning off the camera she was back to her usual, screechy self.

The girl’s got pipes.

We thought about going with a pumpkin- but we’re not lame. Most of the time. Okay, some of the time.

I purchased the Bug’s Halloween costume today. A highlight, to say the least.

Recently, I have been sent many a link to various Lady Bug themed Halloween costumes but I have either felt fairly underwhelmed with their cuteness factor, or have been disappointed by the sizing. My almost-five-month-old may be husky, but she sure ain’t fitting into a 2-year old’s costume, two six-foot plus parents or no.

But today, oh glorious today, a college pal Melody forwarded me the creme-de-la-creme. The Lady Bug costume to top all Lady Bug costumes. It was like saying Yes to the Dress!, except to my baby’s Halloween costume. TOTALLY THE SAME THING!

And I am now shaky with anticipation and excitement.

Because, obviously.

IT IS A BUBBLE! GOOD LORD! Who can resist a bubble? ON A BABY?!

Satan, and Hitler, and Teletubbies, that’s who.

Moving on.

I am going to just gobble her up in this. Okay, I’m not really going to eat my child. But maybe. It’ll be tempting.

I’ll eat you up I love you so!

I’ve been saying that quite a bit lately- what with all The Wild Things hype. I can’t help it.

Anyway, Halloween. Costume. Bug. Right!

I will be sure to document to an inappropriate degree the wearing of said costume. We are headed up to our old stomping grounds of Ventura to visit our dear friends who host an annual Halloween party. The holiday is taken very seriously in their household, and James has been suffering from serious anxiety (no really, like he’s prematurely balding and his skin is breaking out and he can’t stop futsing with EVERYTHING) because we (as in he and I) have yet to come up with a suitable costume, and we may be turned away at the door if we don’t get our shit together.

I kid you not.

At least the Bug will be guaranteed entrance. She can party like a Bug Star, or something.

Traumatizing her uncles since 2009.

One of Addison’s FOUR uncles came to visit this weekend.

Yes, she has FOUR- one, two, three, FOUR! uncles. James’ three younger brothers and my younger bro. One would think that they would be the ones traumatizing her, but it seems quite the opposite. Upon first meeting Uncle William when she was a mere six weeks old, we got to explain what “blowing out a diaper” meant. The horror and disgust on his face? Priceless. Who knew that such a tiny person could possibly have that effect on Uncle William.

Anyway, Uncle Ben was here visiting during his fall break from his frosh year of college. He is the youngest of the four, and thus did not grow up experiencing baby poop, and spit up, and drool, and baby poop, and diapers, and most importantly BABY POOP. Keep this in mind.

So as I mentioned, the Bug had been given formula, which did a number on the digestive system. Read: Lots of moaning. Lots of farting. Lots of grumbling, yucky, gassy belly. It was a smelly affair.

Needless to say, the little one did not have a bowel movement for seven, I repeat, SEVEN days.

Ben arrived, and we decided to do a day trip up to Malibu which meant a long day in the car, away from the comfort of home, and say, the washing machine. With the bazooka fully locked and loaded, James and I braced ourselves for an explosion, because obviously it would happen away from the house. Obviously.

And like clockwork. It did. In a capacity that I can’t even fully put to words. We had to pull off the 101 and manage the fallout while Ben sat texting in the front seat to manage his trauma at the sheer amount of baby shit happening in the rear of the car. I bet he is the COOLEST college kid on his campus.

What did you do for fall break? Party like a rockstar, huh? Yeah, well, I visited my brother, his wife and his baby, and she shat ALL OVER the car. While I was in it. Top that!

Way to traumatize Uncle Ben, Addison. Like he’ll ever come back to visit.

James and I were literally pee-laughing as our poop-covered child wound up baring her ass to many a tourist headed to the Griffith Park Observatory. Our budding mooner.

We ran through an entire pack of baby wipes, and the outfit was completely toast. And I found crusted, yellow baby shit under my nails hours later.

G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S, yeah!

Winning her mother’s favor. For eternity

Addison has successfully won over my heart.

(As if she hadn’t already).

When she’s thirteen, and begging me to extend her curfew to 1am, all she will have to do is say, Yo Ma, remember that one time when I was only 4 months old, and we took a trip to Catalina Island, exposing me to island life and boat rides for the first time, and I FEEL IN LOVE WITH THE OCEAN!? I quaked and shook and gazed with joy at her blue, salty abyss and was AWED?! And that’s when you knew that I was indeed your child?! Yeah, so what about that curfew?

And she would win. Win because to see her fall so head over heals in love with the briny deep was nothing short of magical, and has won my favor. For ever.

And btdubs, how strange does the Bug look with her hair flat?!

Pretty fucking strange.

It’s now long enough that the weight causes it to droop. And be, like, normal.

And it’s blowing my mind.

Big on the Pig.

Oh well, HELLO! It’s been an eternity since I last posted, and by eternity, I mean 10 days, but that’s totally comparable to forever, so I’ll run with it.

What, pray you ask, has been keeping my nimble fingers and mind from littering the Internet with more of my word vomit? Well, first there was an anxiety filled week of preparation for a trip cross-country with an infant. Then there was said trip cross-country. And then there was the aftermath of said trip cross-country which included none other than the acquisition of H1N1. As in Swine Flu. As in, I’M BIG ON THE PIG!

*Oink*

I seriously can’t stop snorting and oinking at James every time he enters the pig sty, as we’ve taken to calling the room in which I am quarantined. Every possible lame pig joke has been overused and abused during this three days of flu-ridden hell. I’ve been demanding that James purchase me a faux pig nose, but alas, he claims that there are more important things to attend to like say, keeping our fragile fragile infant healthy and tending to his sick wife. I say, BALLS to that, I want the damn snout, but he’s the nurse-Nazi and I do what he says.

I have been dreading, as in fearing, as suffering from anxiety-induced insomnia at the thought of swine flu. Do you know how fragile and innocent and untainted by illness a four month old’s immune system is? VERY! The thought of my Bug plagued with fever and chills and holed up in one of those hospital incubator’s strapped to tubes and needles is as horrifying as my memory of watching Dr. Giggles at a slumber party at age 12. Disturbing. Nausea inducing. NOT OKAY!

Of course, because I have been gripped with fear and terror, I obviously had to become sick with none other than THE swine flu. Like a life lesson, or some shit.

Here’s how it all went down.

We returned from a crazy, wonderful, whirlwind trip to our Nation’s Capital where we saw some of our most favorite people in the whole wide world, witnessed a beautiful marriage, and were reminded that traffic in DC really is just as horrendous and I-want-to-drive-off-a-cliff-inducing as LA. As we drove past the Mall the night we arrived, I made everyone’s ears bleed with a rendition of the National Anthem. The city is just so damn patriotic. I pointed out the Washington Phallus, er Monument to the Bug and explained that much of our country’s history was an ode to the great, white male penis. I am a stellar U.S. History buff.

SLAVERY CAUSED THE CIVIL WAR.

Anyway.

We crammed as many people as we possibly could into a three day stay, which wasn’t awkward at ALL when I had to email these twenty some individuals and say, Oh hey, great seeing you, and hugging, and kissing, and embracing, and generally sharing air with you this weekend. Btdubs, I have SWINE FLU! Besos!

Yeah. Awesome.

We arrived home Monday night and I wasn’t feeling so hot. James swore that this would all be cured by a solid night’s sleep. Except, that solid night’s sleep allowed the evil piggies to settle into my system in a profound and debilitating capacity. I woke up feeling like I’d been run over by a bus. I mustered the energy to meet with my thesis adviser, all the while holding, cradling, and generally sharing air with my poor, sweet, precious infant. By the afternoon, I was shaking and aching with chills and fever. The tell tale signs of the flu.

Panic.

I called my doctor and they said they could see me ASAP, so James left work to meet me and scoop up the babe. Upon assessing my symptoms, and the fact that the seasonal flu has yet to take the world by storm, Mr. Doctor was fairly convinced it was H1N1. He ran the test, and sure enough POSITIVO!

Right, so I’m flipping out. And weeping. And starring at my precious child, who, as I mentioned, I’d been cradling, and holding, and BREATHING ON all day.

JESUS CHRIST WE’RE ALL GONNA DIE!

Someone, somehow, managed to talk me out of my panic, and handed me a prescription of the antiviral Tamiflu.

And here’s where shit gets interesting, because then I’m informed I have to stop breastfeeding…

Um…

Excuse me?

I AM SO NOT READY! WHAT?! WAIT?! WHY?!

Basically, the doctor informed me, and then the pharmacist informed me, and then the pediatrician informed me that I would POISON my child if I breastfeed while on antivirals. If I wanted to resume after the course of medication, PUMP AND DUMP was the name of the game, ya know, because pumping is just oodles of fun, especially when quaking with fever. The extra sweat all over the machine gives it a little grease, er something.

In my delirious, exhausted state, we took the doctor’s word, picked up some formula, and gave our child the most vicious, stinky, RANK farts ever known to mankind. Like a skunk had up and died in our home. And the poor thing moaned and groaned like a fat man with a belly ache all night long. It was heartwrenchingly pathetic.

Then, while pumping at 4 in the morning, because I was so engorged that I had awoken not from the fitful fever and body aches but from the sheer pain of my chest, I tweeted about this little debacle, and MY GOD did that stir my meager 376 followers to action. I had mothers and breastfeeding advocates all over passing me links and information about breastfeeding and swine flu. The resounding opinion was, if you’re sick with swine flu, KEEP BREASTFEEDING! Breastmilk is like liquid gold and jam packed with immunity-boosting, sickness-busting antibodies. This is all well and good, however, this did not address the potential contamination of my milk thanks to the antivirals. After much tweeting and research, I was sent this link. Now that sure stirred up the whole contaminated milk theory. Then I was connected to a hotline called Motherrisk where I spoke with a consultant who elaborated on this study and confirmed that breastfeeding while on antivirals was in fact not going to cause my child to grow an extra eye or froth at the mouth like a rabid dog. At that point I was sold. It seemed to me that doctors were playing it safe because there has not been much research and they just don’t really know what the hay may is going on with this crazy flu. While I understand that, I am grateful that I was given some solid information on the issue and able to make an informed decision for my family. Because I had a fever, I expressed milk and James fed Addison so as to avoid unnecessary contact with my pig-piggie self. Once the fever subsided, however, I washed my hands religiously, singing the ENTIRETY of the ABC’s, before nursing her myself.

That 24-hours when I was unable to hold or kiss or cradle my daughter has been the toughest, most heartbreaking moment of motherhood thus far. Screw the postpartum soreness, the sleepless nights, the explosive poop, the wails of sadness- not being able to hold my child absolutely tore me in two. I knew it was for her safety, and I was kicking myself for not researching the breastmilk situation sooner as I lay in my quarantined room listening to her baby moans across the house as the formula ripped through her unsuspecting belly. I am grateful to the power and support of my proactive Twitter folk who encouraged me to delve deeper and research the issue and make decisions based on this information and do what was ultimately best for my baby and our family.

I’m grateful that I am feeling better by the hour, and that it seems as though both James and Addison have dodged this bullet.

I’m grateful that I have a husband who will stay home from work to care for his child and sick wife 24/7, even if he does tint the laundry blue in the process.

I’m grateful that I have a big, burly, huggable dog that I can cradle when I feel my worst, knowing  that she won’t be infected nor will she care if I snot all over her coat.

I’m grateful that I am in a Master’s program where the faculty understand and respect that my health and family must come before any and all academic obligations.

I’m grateful that I have family and friends all across the country who sent wishes of love and support, reminding me that even at my grossest people love me.

I’m grateful that tonight I will get to share a bed again with my partner and best friend and when our squawky, wee babe awakes at 3am I’ll be able to scoop her into my arms and rock her back to sleep.

Apparently the pig reminded me of how damn lucky I am. Swine flu and all.

Now I’m off to read Charlotte’s Web and watch Penelope, because obviously.

(I couldn’t resist one last lame pig joke, cut a sick girl some slack).