Dear All Of My Neighbors,
Sorry that I don’t remember all of your names. See, I have this new baby who has somehow sucked every ounce of memory that I have into oblivion.
Oh, so you knew about the baby, did you? Right, right, right. You’ve seen me through the windows. I am sorry about all of the walking around I now do without my shirt on, my granny nursing bra (sexxy, I know) jutting out in front of me like gigantic two milk-filled missiles. But you see here, Neighbors Of Mine, I don’t have much of a choice now. I have this baby who thinks he needs to be constantly attached to my chesticles and nothing, I repeat NOTHING I can do dissuades him.
See, I’m actually considering what I’m doing as a PSA, well, without the announcement part, because I am aware that all of you with houses that surround mine have teenage boys. And if they see what happens when girls have babies, they’ll never give the love without a glove.
Breast Wishes (hehehe),
Your Neighbor With The Knockers
PS. Be grateful that I wear a bra. Have you SEEN those ‘natural’ childbirth books? Those women are ALWAYS topless. AND they rock the full bush.
Dear Makers of Breast Pads,
I’m sending my complaining neighbors to you.
You see here, Breast Pad Manufactures, I cannot use you, despite my actual need for Leakage Control, as every time my baby weeps (i.e the 4.5 seconds/day that I unjustly put him down). Nowhere, and I do mean nowhere on your chipper packaging, complete with serene looking woman holding baby (which I must add, is obviously staged, as no new mother has clear bloodshot free eyes without bags around them. Unless they had a wet nurse or something, and if they did, why would they be buying breast pads?) does it mention the what your pads are made of.
Latex. That’s what’s in them.
Want to know how I know? I got a huge rash all over my freshly milk-filled funbags. It looked as though my breasts had come down with a nasty case of herpes, which at 2 days postpartum is _so_not_appreciated.
Because I was ‘desperate’ and ‘a glutton for punishment’ I tried another brand. Same goddamn symptoms: my breasts felt like they were on fire so I itched the skin clear off of them. It was totally awesome.
By awesome, I mean sucky.
So in addition to adding ‘contains latex’ to your packaging, I am imploring you to please write a letter of apology to my neighbors, who can now clearly see the sweet-ass milk stains and perpetua-hard nipples that otherwise would have been obscured by your product.
VD-Free Since 2003 (and Counting!!!),
Red Boobies Are Not Sexxy
Dear Stomach Flu,
Cleaning Barf Out Of The Darnedest of Places
I am so totally confused.
How did you manage to lose Ben’s shoes?
Seriously, wasn’t he WEARING them?
Taking Responsibility Where You Won’t
Notes From The 2.5 Week Trenches (and to remind us all why having new babies is soul-sucking):
*In possibly the most fitting display of irony (but not the Alanis Morisette kind), after a brief hospital admission (due to the baby becoming intolerant of my Crohn’s flare up) it was agreed by my team of doctors to induce my labor. The morning of the induction, I was already so ill that I needed my chemo meds to calm me down BEFORE I went into labor. It was the best I’d felt in months.
*Dave spent 99% of my labor alternately sleet ping or barfing due to a massive migraine which meant that…
*I spent 99% of my labor numb (which, despite it being better than pain, is somewhat claustrophobic), unable to reach the phone, and crying (damn hormones).
*Likely due to having made fun of Dave’s inordinate amount of recessive genes, I have spawned yet another child who looks nothing like me. In fact, Benjamin looks more like Dave than me. I ask you all, HOW IS THAT FAIR? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I SUFFERED FOR YOU, CHILD? /stepping off cross now.
*Breastfed babies shit constantly. And it sounds just like a cappuccino machine. There is nothing not awesome about this especially because The Daver is responsible for all Output.
*In spite of the constant sleep dep and the 7 lb child constantly attached to my chesticles, I haven’t felt this good in at least a year.
*I have an excessive amount of flatulence for no longer having a crotch parasite pressing into my guts.. Yes, gentlemen, I *am* taken.
*Having a baby that dislikes almost everyone except you loses it’s novelty after about Hour 6.
*Diapers are fucking expensive as fuck. I guess I got spoiled with Sir I Can’t Crap the first time around. This must be my comeuppance. I am totally aware that I misspelled that. And I don’t care.
*Yesterday he barfed on my nipples. He BARFED on my NIPPLES. HE BARFED ON MY NIPPLES. And then he peed on me.
(I need a nap)
My second son is a Boob Man. If they had a Boob-a-holics Anon. meeting for newborns, I’d be forced to take him. I’ve spent at least 60 of the last 72 hours with my titties hanging out and flapping in the breeze. And no, they are FAR too large now to flap. I had no idea how freaking scarily huge boobs get AFTER birth.
Here’s a sample conversation between The Baby and I (such a lack of sleep should be evident here):
Me: ‘I gotta pee.’
Me: ‘That’s what you said 16 hours ago when I first mentioned that I had to take a pee.’
Me: ‘Please? I’ll buy you a Wii! Hell, I’ll buy you TWO Wii’s.’
Me: ‘Fuck. Dave, hand me the catheter. Again.’
I prayed and prayed for this baby: the one who would eat happily from my breast without whining, complaining, and making me feel like a total failure as a parent (Ahem, BEN.) And I got him: spitting image of his father and all.
I guess the lesson to be learned here is the miracle you pray for may not always be the one you receive. And seriously, although my nipples may be cracked and bleeding and my tits rock hard and painful, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Life is sweet, Baby.