TMI Alert: Feeling Womanly

Knowing as I write that this is highly likely a) unnecessary and b) unwelcome information for most readers (assuming there are any to begin with), I feel compelled to share some feelings I've had the past couple of days.

Man, I feel like a woman.

Did I sincereiously just quote Shania Twain?! Ugh, I should go to bed now. (By the way, I mis-spoke this evening and combined sincere and seriously...and kind of liked it. Am going to try to make it an actual word and see if it catches on with others. Beau and I have a deal to try to work it into conversation.)

I am of the ilk who think that breastfeeding is among the highest callings of motherhood. Even working full time, I've made it a priority for both my children. I gladly and successfully pumped for an entire year with Bryn, and continued to nurse her for nearly another year. Colt has been a different story. I don't know the source of the difference, but my milk supply has been very different with him. Work stress has been higher, so that may be part of it, but the bottom line is that we are definitely limping to the one-year mark.

Yesterday, I officially called the pumping bit and didn't even take my pump to work. To punctuate that point, I WORE A NORMAL BRA!!!!

And can I just say, it was uplifting....in every sense of the word.

To the Power of Ew

Usually Bryn is an adventurous eater. She'll try nearly anything, and really loves lots of foods that other kids probably wouldn't touch. But tonight...not so much.

I put some Parmesan crusted basa on her plate with some whole grain rice. Bryn will dive into fish before she'd eat grilled chicken, but that rice. She turned her nose up at that before I even sat down at the table.

"I don't like that, Mommy." Again, before I even sat down.

"Have you tried it yet, Bryn?"

"No, because it smells ew."

"I'd really like you to try it before you decide, please." (We're big on trying, but not on forcing a person to eat something they find to be "ew.")

Kindly, she takes a bite of the rice. I kid you not...she started to shiver and shake her head. We asked if it was too hot, but she was already in the process of spitting it back onto her plate saying, "That is not very good, Mommy."

"Okay, sweetheart. You don't have to eat it if you don't like it. Thanks for trying it."

"But, Mommy, what am I going to do with this rice?"

"Honey, you can just leave it on your plate and eat the other stuff. It will be okay."

She went on to eat all of her fish, and her roll, and her salad. However, halfway through dinner, I look over, and she's quietly holding her nose and eating. Poor thing...suffering in silence.

We gave in and scraped it all into the trash so that she could enjoy her dinner in aroma-peace.

PS: for the record, I also thought the rice was pretty ew.

Where is the mommy radar when you need it?

Just when I was thinking I had a handle on the whole mom thing... Colt has been a little under the weather all week--a low-grade fever, fussy, etc. Since his fever was never very high, and he was never really that upset, we had dismissed it all as teething or growing spurt or just still battling the cold from a week ago.

Ah, rookie mistake.

So, Saturday, while visiting my in-laws for Beau's mom's birthday, imagine my surprise when I look down and see fluid draining out of his little, precious ear! I freaked out, and took him to an urgent care place only to hear that his little eardrum had ruptured. EEK! even writing the words hurts me for him.

So we're running two different types of antibiotics, trying to keep it from crusting over, and otherwise trying to comfort the little bugger while constantly apologizing for ignoring the subtle signs of an ear infection. Now that he can sit up by himself and say "da-da-da-da-da-da" we need to teach him to pull on his ear when it hurts. Mommy promises not to miss that kind of sign.

I guess we all knew the day would come...

The other night, Beau was out of town on business, so bedtime for Bryn was less fun than usual. I was balancing Colt while reading the books and then couldn't sit and sing to her like I usually do. It was pretty lame by most accounts, but--you know what--it was the best I could do under the circumstances.

After the feeble attempt at the bedtime routine, I had barely gotten downstairs with Colt before Bryn was up and out of bed, calling me to come back up for a do-over. I ran back up stairs sans Colt to see what was the matter (and more importantly, what I could say or do to make it stop.)

Amid the "I want my Daddy"s, Bryn busted out with a first (of probably many) "I wish Colt would just go back into your tummy." I tried to explain why that was unlikely to happen, but she was pretty insistent on wishing it to be so. She really wanted him to be bigger than he is. I assured her that he was growing, but she correctly countered, "no, he's not, Mom. He's staying that size all DAY!"

I realized that my powerful analogy about how quickly hair grows was probably no match for her frustration level. So, the best I could do was just say good night and love you one more time.

After a good night's sleep, all was well again...and Bryn adores her brother as much as ever.

The Art of the Papercut

Bryn manages to inject a great deal of drama into literally every aspect of her life. From who gets their shoes on first to which cup she drinks from to injuries...she has an amazing flair for making it a bigger deal than necessary. I love her for it...I'm sure there's a future for her in theater (or therapy, depending on whether or not we get a handle on it early.)

Last night, we were sitting together, with Colt, reading some of the books she got for Christmas. Several of them weren't exactly heirloom quality literature, so we were reading paperbacks. Alas, the key word there is PAPER.

Since I was holding Colt, Bryn was in charge of holding the book and turning pages. Usually, she's great about such responsibility, but yesterday, she managed to get a papercut on the skin between her thumb and pointer finger.

For the record, papercuts do hurt. And a papercut right there, downright, stinks. I get it.

Bryn's reaction, however, was to go berserk. Beau came running into the living room wild-eyed for all of the racket. I calmly let him know that she'd gotten a papercut, because he was getting nothing from her except, "I NEED a bandaid. Owie, owie, it hurts, it HURTS!" over and over.

This is typical interaction for minor cuts and scrapes, but my favorite part of the whole event was, while Beau was fetching the bandaid, Bryn wailed, "SOME-BODY HELP ME! PLEASE, SOME-BOD-EE-EE-EE!"

The bandaid shaped like a yellow crayon seemed to do the trick.