So. I'm out of my special lactation tea, so I've been drinking beer. And sitting on the couch all day. In boxers and a white tank, throwing cans at The Child while she rolls around on the floor. Kidding! Though I do sit on the couch a lot. And throw things at The Child.
Anyway. Beer. I'm halfway through my beer, right? And I'm already tipsy. Not drunk by any means, but I am feeling mirthful. The mirth, it is upon me. And I keep giggling over, "so I've been drinking beer." This is what almost a year of near-complete abstinence will do to you. Used to take me five beers to get to this point.
Also, my "g" key has consumption and is quickly fading. It is hard to remember to really pound on it when I have beer in the head. So if you see any very odd words in here, just add in a "g" somewhere and it will probably make sense. Actually, it probably won't, but keep trying anyway.
The Child has been SO MUCH FUN the last few days, which is why I've hardly written. I write more when I need something to do, something to get my mind away from. For six months, that's been The Child. That sounds awful. I just mean that until very recently, she was a major source of stress in my life (which, still not much stress at all, but even a small amount is a lot for me, who doesn't stress about almost anything), but lately she's been nothing short of delightful. Today I sat her on the floor (she sits! by herself! for whole minutes at a time! a half hour, even!) while I folded laundry. She had a duck that her great-grandma sent her for Easter. Out of nowhere, in a very Olga Queen of Scandinavia voice, she went, "GRAAAAGHALABADAAAAABAMALGABAAAAAAAAARFALAGAMAAAAAAAABAMAAAAAALADAAAAABFFFFPBBBT!" For five minutes straight. While hoisting the duck up into the air and pounding him back in the floor with all her might. I do not think I have ever laughed so hard in my life.
Mother of the Year So Far Award (Today) goes to me for having the baby monitor receivers on the wrong freaking channel for what is probably weeks now. And here I thought she was just totally awesome at never having nightmares anymore. I win again! At motherhood!
Also, on Saturday, she (1) bashed her head on the wall when James almost fell down the stairs with her in his arms (don't worry we checked her eye dilation and made sure she wasn't acting weird), (2) smacked her head on the ceiling of the car when I was getting out with her in my arms and (3) got my pointy tooth in the side of her head not ten seconds later. Also, on Friday, I had nicked a chunk of flesh out of her forehead with my pinky nail. My pinky nail that doesn't even exist. I list (1) and (2) like they were her fault. It makes me feel better about negligent parenting.
You know, I make these jokes because I know I love her and would cut off my own arm and eat it with a spoon for her, but I sometimes wonder if some crazy uptight weirdo would ever call the cops on me. When I waited tables, some lady called the cops on a mother who smacked the wrist of her unruly toddler. I didn't witness the incident, so I know wrist-smacking could definitely be done in a not good way, but I somehow doubt that was the case here.
I painted things today. And Saturday. And Friday. I stupidly wore my favorite most comfortable awesome black pants on Friday and smeared them with off-white paint. They are maternity yoga pants, so it's probably time I retired them anyhow, but oh how wonderful they are. And they're so soft and gentle on my still-itchy incision site.
Despite my sadness, I soldiered on. The trim for the dining room is FINALLY done. It just needs to be nailed up now. And the window over the kitchen sink is painted. There was permanent dirt in the corners of that window, and no amount of scrubbing would ever get it off. It just looked blech and ew. So I painted it, and what a difference that made.
I still can't figure out how to get the inner pane of glass out to clean it and get to the inside of the outer pane, but it still looks a thousand times better. It's the kind of window with a hand crank. I can get the screen out, and I could get to the outside with a long-handled sponge. There's an inner pane that appears to be detachable, but when I pull out the tabs, it just won't budge. Aggravating in the extreme.
Speaking of which, is that normal? Six months postpartum, and my scar still itches like a mother. Lotion, Vitamin E, nothing helps. Except scratching. Maybe I just need to bathe more.
Also, did you know that men can breastfeed? I found this while looking up info on lactation fun, and at first I was extremely creeped out. I'm still pretty creeped out, but the idea is growing on me. All the liberating benefits of formula, none of the expense. Jackpot! Maybe, with our next kid, I can get James on board with this. I'll never look at him the same way again, but I'll get to have a social life again.
I thought today was Wednesday. So when my fellow JJ Abrams-obsessed Hebrew Friend texted me at 8:15 with, "I hope the monster turns out to be Cloverfield!" I nearly had hernias in my scramble to the remote. MISSING LOST OH NO CANNOT HAPPEN MISSING LOST OH NO! Turns out today is Tuesday, and I was missing Fringe. Moderate sigh of relief. It's not Lost, but it's next in line for Favorite Show of the Moment, so we nearly had a crisis anyhow. The monster turned out not to be Cloverfield, but that would have been awesome. Though a monster the size of Cloverfield would not be the sort of thing the authorities would need to track down in Boston. He'd be on Boston, eating everything in sight.
I need to go to bed. Beer is kicking in more.
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