So, ok, first things first.
Looky, presh-us tiny baby gurl, lovely cheekies, wittle baby fin-gurs, num num num.
We are now officially two weeks in. Let’s review.
1. Baby vagina…totally creepy.
Ok so, I have a vagina of my own. I know what it kinda-ish looks like.
I drank and dabbled in college. I’ve watched porn on youtube. I feel confident I could pick a clitoris or two out of a line up.
But…teeny, tiny swollen baby parts?
I literally have a panic attack when I have to wipe her…which is always. Poop just goes…everywhere. In creases. CREASES! BABY VAGINA CREASES!
2. You know that game they have at fairs and carnivals where you sit on a stool, and shoot water from a gun at a small target, and as you pound the target with a hard, steady stream of water, it causes some sort of do-dad to race up a track, and the person who gets to the top first, wins?
I would totally win that game.
With my breast milk.
The force is way strong with this one.
Which leads me to…
3. People I will not breast feed in front of:
Which leads me to…
4. Dad, seriously, don’t make eye contact with me while I am hiding under a blanket breast feeding.
5. The hardest part of having three kids? Recovering from birth while having three kids.
We found out an hour before I gave birth, that Chrysler had officially filed bankruptcy…thus shutting down all the plants and suppliers…thus laying off my husband for some unknown amount of weeks holyfuckingchrist.
I sat in my bed sobbing, being all, oh my God, we are having a baby and you don’t have a job for a while, and I can’t raise a family of five on a bloggers salary, I am not the breadwinner, we are all gonna die, or at least end up living in our car and eating out of dumpsters.
Which is like, the worst part. Because cats eat out of dumpsters, and there is no way in hell I am going to share food with a cat. They have crazy eyes. And they suck the breath from babies.
But, my husband was all, chill, we’ll figure it out, at least I will be around to help out with the kids more.
Which is true. Except that he can’t express milk from his nipples or, apparently, not fall asleep on the couch while he is supposed to be watching the kids so I can try to have a fucking bowel movement in peace for fucks sake.
Because, hello, you can’t push anything out for weeks post birth. Weeks!
You just have to sit there, white knuckling the towel bar, waiting for gravity to enable something of substance to just…fall out.
All this, while two toddlers bang on the door and take off with your perineum bottle and tucks pads.
6. I am having sex dreams about the married guy from Mystic Pizza. I would totally babysit for him. And by babysit, I mean, have sex with him…and then eat pizza.