I can't tell if my eyes aren't bloodshot because I'm sleeping so well or if I'm up to my eyeballs in milk.

First of all, THANK YOU for all of the kind words of encouragement and/or commiserating with me on that last post. They were all much appreciated and I may have teared up reading them during some late night/early morning feeding sessions.

In other Super Uplifting News, I made a quick run to the commissary yesterday BY MYSELF to get our weekly staples (during the crazy lunch hour, no less), and the lady bringing my bags out to my car (oh how I LOATHE that "service") said something to me about babies. I told her that I had escaped while one of mine was napping and the newborn was receiving some free family babysitting. And then she said, "Oh, now you can start workin' on dat body again! You the second lady with a newborn that I seen today! Got some work to do, huh?" Um, yes, bagger lady. Thank you for commenting on my jiggly exterior. (In my head, in the Soup Nazi voice: "No tip for you!")

Speaking of the free babysitting (because we will not be focusing on my wiggly, jiggly outward appearance until after the doc clears me to do something about it, aka, I have five more weeks of "vacation"), my in-laws came down this week to meet little Molly. And see Sam. Sam was the main attraction since Molly was pretty content to park herself on anyone's chest and score some z's while Sam shrieked throughout the house and smashed blocks against every solid surface in sight. These extra hands were much appreciated, as I could get laundry done, pump (more on that in a minute), cook dinner, or just sit on the couch and relax. And then (then!) they took our thorn-in-my-side dog back home with them!

 

 Don't let her cute and fuzzy exterior create a soft spot in your heart. This next photo more accurately captures her true essence.

Now what if Steve had been holding my BABY instead of a ham hock?! I rest my case.

To say that their trip earned major gold stars would be a serious understatement. What is above a gold star anyway? Oh! PLATINUM STARS. Those. They earned them. Let's all say many silent prayers of thanksgiving for my in-laws for saving my very sanity by relieving me of that dog.



Amen.

Ok. So the pumping. I know many people ABHOR pumping. It is just One Of Those Things that all women with children seem to hate. Well, I am not in that group. I actually LOVE pumping. (Breastmilk, that is. We're talking about breastmilk here in case anyone is not reading my mind at this point.) Molly started out with this really great latch in the hospital, and then I guess I wasn't supporting her head properly or enough or something (?) and she started "breaking me down" as the lactation consultant put it. That loosely translates into: "She is mutilating your ever-lovin' BOOBS woman and they look HORRIBLE." So I started pumping to give my boobs a chance to recover. And I kind of had a ton of anxiety about letting her near this very sensitive area again and have just continued pumping. It is so EASY! And quick! And painless! And I get a surplus of milk to stockpile in my freezer (please don't come over and assume that is ice cream!)! And OTHER PEOPLE get to feed her too! And she's still getting strictly breastmilk! And I can use pacifiers without stressing about the dreaded "nipple confusion"! And and and! I just have nothing but great things to say about it. With that said..... I'm not quite sure how the logistics of this pumping situation are going to work out after Steve goes back to work and I am home alone. I did it with Sam (he was strictly a biter! YEOWCH.), but there was no one else around during the day demanding snacks and drinks and books to be read to them. I simply set him in front of me and gave him some milk (from the stockpile) while I pumped and everything was peachy. I am actually now the proud new owner of one of those wacky bustiers that makes pumping hands-free, but the looks I get from Sam while wearing it tell me that this might cost me in therapy sessions later on down the road. (Please please please click on that link and have a laugh at the woman in the photo.) So now I'm contemplating re-latching her. Please begin saying a couple thousand rosaries for my boobs. Thank you and Amen.

Since this post is already super-random, I will just throw in there that I have been left. For the first time ever. One of my very best friends here moved out early this morning. Even though I was up (3am is SUCH a happy time of day, friends!), I figured it would make more sense to say goodbye to her yesterday, you know, when the sun was up and I wasn't attached to a milk machine like a dairy cow. It was tough, y'all. I haven't had to do that yet. I made a really good friend while we were in Virginia, but I left, and somehow that is much much easier than being left. And I guess I knew that eventually this would happen (living on a military installation and all), I just was NOT prepared for it. The kooky hormones did not help either. I started crying in the car on the way to her house. Then I pulled up and saw the moving van and cried again. And then I refrained from crying while I was there, but I immediately started crying while I was walking back to my car. (Totally forgot her husband and his friend were in the moving truck when I walked by crying and he was all, "See ya later Jenn!" And me: <sniff, sniff> "Oh! Bye! Have fun moving!" Have fun moving? I am clearly not a goodbye person.) We both agreed though, that if our husbands continued on in the Army, we would end up stationed somewhere together again. I sure hope so. In the meantime, I must find another best friend that is as knowledgeable as she is on cloth diapering, Catholicism, cooking Paula Deen recipes, locating the best restaurants in a town full of fast-food chains, and agreeing on everything child and husband-related. This is kind of a tall order, I know, but I'm hoping she has a twin floating around out there that is starting to in-process here.

Molly is still exercising her reign as Easy Baby and sleeping nice, longish stretches throughout the night. Except a couple nights ago when (we assume) she had a wicked case of The Gas. Sam never had gas, so I didn't really recognize it right away, but once we eliminated every other possible scenario that might keep her from sleeping (I know, we are Super Parents), we settled on gas. Well crap. We have nothing to relieve that. The little leg exercises and stomach massage weren't working, so I sent Steve out to Walgreens to get some of that baby gas medicine. (We do not earn Super Parent status on our level of preparedness. Clearly.) He left at 10:30pm. I bounced and rocked and finally got her to sleep. By the time Steve got back home, I was passed out too. I woke up when he came back in the room and it was 11:30. Now, Walgreens is NOT that far from our house, so I was a little confused as to why that took so long. But apparently we live in a town where the Walgreens are not open 24/7. So he had to go to Walmart. And apparently Walmart only has two lanes open at 11pm and a lot of folks do their regular grocery shopping at this hour (???), so he had to wait a while in line to buy this gas medicine. What a good man. If it had been me, Steve would have gotten a phone call like, "Honey? I got the gas medicine, don't worry. Now if you could just come pick me up down at the police station, I can give Molly the correct dose."

And now I will make your ovaries twitch with this video of Molly falling into a milk coma.