Notes, observations, admissions, embarrassments
My girl has rubbed a bald stripe right 'round her head, like a senile tonsured monk who has forgotten to shave off the top. This is the result of recurring head-thrashing, the cause of which we cannot determine. She just seems to enjoy head-thrashing. Sometimes she laughs while she does it.
My left breast makes two ounces of hard-won milk for every five produced by the right. There is no rhyme or reason to this, but it is remarkably consistent. Right breast is now a shocking D cup; left hovers between B and C. In combination with my seriously deviated septum and generally angular mien, I bear a striking resemblance to this fine woman. Striking.
Much to my dismay, I am bucking the promised breastfeeding trend and am, in fact, gaining weight each day. Stems and stalk are ballooning in sympathy with my right breast. I read today that sleep deprivation can lead to obesity, so there go my hopes of burning up extra calories through continued wee-hours whimpering. Wish I could share some of my lard with Wavery, who could really use a few dozen buckets of the blob.
Olivia prefers her father in all matters unrelated to the boob. She reserves her finest gummy grins and doe-eyed looks of adoration for Jeff. I feel a spurt of bitter jealousy each time I see it, tempered only slightly by the fact that I love him madly, too.
LilyPadz, though expensive, are my new best friends. They are the only things I can wear under my lopsided bra that don't show through my work clothes. My work clothes that are two sizes bigger than they should be, due to the reverse breastfeeding weight gain scenario described above.
The fact that I care even a smidgen about the weight gain makes me feel like a leperous ingrate.
I am doing a decidedly crappy job at work and a marginally crappy job at motherhood. As for wifehood, I am not even showing up--I seem to have resigned, or at least gone on a leave of absence.
I cut off all my hair, in the classic regulation mom style--the "I'm still a little hip, right?" cut that really says, "Nice try, mom."
She likes being changed. She likes being bathed. She hates going to sleep. She hates tummy time, unless it involves being flopped over a parent's leg while sucking on said parent's finger.
Olivia's eyes are the color of the sky on a clear December day. Ours are the color of dirt. We just discovered how much fun it is to dress her in blue.