I was browsing the internet for breast pumps, and I remembered the first one I bought.

Or rather, the husband had gone out and bought it. It was just a little Evenflo battery powered/AC adapter deal. Nothing too fancy. I was about 4 days postpartum, and the girl child was breast feeding like a champ. Chris wanted to get in on this “Feed the baby!” thing, so he had gone to the local box store, and picked up this pump.

Did I mention I was 4 days postpartum? So still all puffy looking and highly hormonal?

So I plugged the pump in and sat on the bed to use it. It was loud. Apparently, cheap does not equal discrete. The pump was doing it’s thing, and Chris poked his head around the door. My mechanically inclined husband was apparently fascinated by this machinery attached to my breast.

“Wow. It’s just like you’re a cow.” 

As soon as the words left his mouth, he got this “Oh, shit.” look on his face. As the blood rushed to my cheeks and the tears to my eyes, he started babbling, “That’s not what I meant, I just meant the machine. It’s like the ones on the dairy farm, that’s what I meant.”

He wasn’t really helping himself there, at all.

Obviously, I forgave him. Eventually.

Ah, memories.

Slightly Similar Nonsense:

• “Lactation Nurse”
• Master of Non-Verbal Communication
• 30 Days-Day 2-Something You Love (about yourself)
• The School Year is Coming!
• My Sneaky Son

My coffee is getting cold.

If I didn’t drown it in creamer, it would probably stay hot longer.

CNN headlines are on the television, but I haven’t really been paying attention to them.

The kids are now both off at school, after another hectic morning of urging and “Hurry! Socks! Shoes! Teeth!

I’m wondering how that’s going to go when we throw a baby into the mix.

My coffee is still sitting there, getting cold.

There’s so many things that need to be done. Cleaned. Set-up and unpacked.
So many things that aren’t even bought yet. (I’m trying to space purchases out, so as to still be able to pay the bills. It’s harder than it sounds.)
I think I may have reached the point where I am just utterly overwhelmed at the very idea of doing these things.

And my coffee is now completely cold.

I wrote this for Heather @ The EO’s 20th Just Write link-up. If you’d like to Just Write and link-up, head over there to find out more.

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• To Remember
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My children have fallen in love with The Doctor.

After eating supper, they clear the table as fast as they can and get their stuff together for the next morning.

There is panic and rushing and craziness and little robotic voices yelling “Exterminate! Exterminate!”.

Because if they get it all done quickly enough, they can watch an episode of Doctor Who.

My inner geek is so proud.

If you have a dose of happy to share this week, head over to Band Back Together and let us know!

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• Dose of Happy: Baby things
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• Dose of Happy Monday
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If there is someone you’d like to say “Shut Your Whore Mouth!” too, head over to mushroomprinting.com and link up!

Listen, unless you have trademarked your child’s name, you don’t own it. And no, I don’t give a rat’s ass if your coworker’s sister is naming her baby the same thing. Or if your sister-in-law wants to use a name that’s not the name you picked, but it has the same cadence/vowel sound/initials/whatthefuckever.

Chances are that even your super special Unyecke name is bound to be repeated on the class roster at least a few times in your child’s life. You might as well get used to the idea now. You can’t hoard a baby name all to yourself. So shut your whore mouth about it, and deal.

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My first child, our daughter, was born a whole six years ago. After she was born, before we even moved from labor and delivery over to recovery, a “lactation nurse” came to help us get started with that whole breastfeeding thing.

Now, I’d never done this before. And even though I had thoroughly studied all sorts of books on the art of breastfeeding and such, I figured I should give this lady, who surely must be trained in the breastfeeding department, a shot at helping us out.

So the lactation nurse cooed over the baby, and then went to help us get latched. And my daughter, having been born with a trace of vacuum cleaner in her, apparently, glommed right on and started suckling away.

Except…it hurt. It hurt a LOT. And all the books had claimed that breastfeeding properly wouldn’t hurt. (I’ve since learned that the books, they lie! But that’s a different story) So I spoke up, somewhat timidly and let the nurse know that this was downright painful.

“Oh, you’ll get used to it, honey,” she assured me, patting my arm before bustling off to her next patient.

Well, this was really painful. It just did not feel right at all. So I popped my little Dyson darling off of my breast, and discovered that while she had indeed latched on, it was not onto my nipple. About a 1/2 inch too high, there was an ugly hickey on my breast.

Moral of the story: Tacking the word lactation onto someone’s title does not an expert make.

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