What in the hell?
When the same damn thing happened with Cooper, I assumed it was because of the intense paci use and the fact that he slept 10 hours overnight in his Rock n Play cradle, which, by the way is the device responsible for Dorothy's birth-- Cooper was such an amazingly easy infant that we figured why not have another. This time, though, I am the best little APer around and still, still, still my reproductive system thinks we're Duggers and is ready to work on #5. And just a few days ago, we experienced our first of what will surely be many milk supply dips as I am pretty sure I was ovulating. What is my body thinking? A February baby is not my ideal Valentine this year. Or any year from here on out.
I promise not to freak out about cyclical milk changes with Dorothy the way I did with Cooper because Cooper never drank a single bottle and nursed into my second trimester, wonky milk supply and all. And he's chubby. I am just going to nurse, nurse, nurse on demand whenever she wants and forget about pumping. I have a course release in the fall, so as long as we can figure out my one meeting a week, Dorothy and I should be able to be together for all feedings. I have a week of meetings in August that might be tricky, but I think I can have a babysitter bring her to me every 2 hours, and we should be fine.
I like that she and I have never been-- and are not planning to be-- out of each other's sight for the next 10 months. The farthest she has been from me is in an adjacent building with Ben while I taught class and hanging out snug at home while I got a couple of massages last week.
A couple, yes. Mainly because I haven't been for a massage in so long-- I was really tense. I HATE prenatal massages because everyplace around here props me up with towels, and I sometimes feel like I am going to pass out from bad angles, and then I had to wait for Dorothy to space her feedings out a little more. It's been a YEAR. Talk about roughing it.
The first one on Tuesday was just lovely. There is something about lying on my stomach on a massage table with my face sticking out of the round face pillow thing trying not to drool on the therapist's foot as she works on the left shoulder that has never been right since I pulled a muscle there moving into an apartment right before Ben and I got married that makes me feel so happy and grateful for my wonderful little life.
My second massage of the week-- on Saturday to kick off my Mothers Day/birthday/all about me weekend-- really sucked. I think the extreme bitchiness I brought with me had something to do with it. (Ben said, wow, I feel like your hormones are really messed up today which is the last thing you should ever say to someone who is hormonal.) The therapist started with me face up, which is not the usual position, and she never actually massaged my face or my temples, which was a huge bummer and by the time I realized she was never actually going to, I was face down, and it was too late. Also? She did this weird pinchy thing long my jaw and neck, and I felt like she was checking my lymph nodes only it made my arms tingly.
Morals of the story: 1. I can bitch about anything, including a week that contains multiple spa services. 2. Don't lie down for a massage with a bad attitude. It screws up your chakras or something. 3. I need more regular massages-- I'm going at least every 4 weeks starting next Thursday.
How in the world can my tiny squishy baby be 2 months old tomorrow? Two months ago, Ben and I were walking the halls of labor and delivery. I was drinking apple juice with ice cubes; he was taking random pictures and posting them on Facebook, and we were both 5-and-a-half hours away from meeting the delightful pink person who is sleeping in her own crib right now, lulled into silence by her Sleep Sheep's whale noises.
How can I be 35 already? With 4 kids and 2 houses? Does.not.seem.possible.
I had a terrific birthday.
We met with infectious disease about Harry-- hey, want to know the shittiest place to take your infant? the infectious disease clinic at the hospital, omfg-- and they really don't think he has rheumatic fever. Before they are going to dole out the Justavirus diagnosis, the doctors are reviewing some more evidence and consulting with some more people, and they are going to treat him like a strep carrier and give him another antibiotic at the end of his penicillin course, instead of leaving him on penicillin through adulthood, which is what they would do for rheumatic fever.
I got the purse I have been coveting since oh MY WHOLE LIFE, and the kids gave me picture albums which if you saw the laundry basket full of photos in our storage room, you would know we needed.
Because we are gluttons for punishment, we took everyone to our favorite birthday bar, and I got pretty drunk on 1.5 beers.
Then Ben and I sat by a backyard fire after the kids went to bed and came inside to watch Veep. Party animals.
|my fave picture|
|Ben the high chair|
|H, fresh off his talent show audition|
|Jack, king of the cell phone selfie|
|Dorothy's bday gift to me: she took a paci and was happy the whole meal!|
|oh my god he's so adorable I want to eat him|