The Mom from the Black Lagoon

I have two kids and I’m turning into one of those moms.

You know, the kind that eat the food that their toddler has previously drooled.
I am becoming the kind of mom that thinks cold spittle covered food is acceptable eats.

I’m not there just yet, but already I’ve seen the signs.

I consider yellow slimy baby poop the “good kind of poop”. The idea that there is a good kind of poop is strictly a parent thought. I don’t even feel the extreme rushing need to wash my hands following a diaper change. Maybe, theoretically, I don’t even wash my hands. Theoretically. Because it was the good kind of poop.

While wearing my nice clothes I get barfed on. Chunky milk barf. Do I change? No. I just rub it in so you can’t see the chunks.

In basketball shorts all day? Good enough.

Let the girl backwash in my water? No problem.

Put my hair in a bun instead of brushing it? Always.

Dropped the pacifier on the public bathroom floor? Yes.

I’m turning into the snot-covered, drag-all-my-kids-to-the-grocery-store, didn’t-even-notice-he-was-poopy kind of mom.

You may want to buy yourself a bottle of hand sanitizer before I have #3.

Constraint

Forgive me for pulling a Seinfeld here, but

What’s with bras?

Let’s take 2 very sensitive parts of flesh and encase them in metal and fabric but not in the shape of that flesh, actually, more like how that flesh should look if you’d gotten them surgically enhanced. Let’s also make that fabric very scratchy. And the straps thin and hard.

4 years ago I had enough milk to feed a small country. Or at least an island. Definitely enough to feed a chunky baby who ate every 2 hours and preferred milk over food any day. I definitely fed a few friends’ babies with the extra in my freezer. Plus a lot of overflow that stained our sheets, the carpet, 2 chairs, all my shirts… (Milk, it turns out, is like the worst staining thing ever.) I went through a box of nursing pads every 4 days. When people say nursing is cheaper than formula I wonder about this.

So this time I am determined to keep it in check. I wear my bra all the time. For some reason it helps. I wonder if they have a shower bra, because I do think I need it in there, too. I’m like Tobias. A never nude.

But, OH! My tender flesh-es are angry with me. On top of being sore, they scream to be free. I’d like to let them out, but I know they are not going to stay disciplined. They are like Amaya running out the door at 6 in the morning because she knows she is not supposed to, but she has to because she wants to.

At least, unlike Amaya, they don’t know how to unlock the door yet.

Cosmic Jokes

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!

If you are offended by the "b" word, read no further. If you are, and want to pretend that you're too holy to read this post, but want to anyway, I won't tell anyone you're here. I promise there are no pictures.

I have always been completely happy with my A cup size. Enhancements? Reductions? Not for this girl. I enjoy running, and am so happy that I haven't had any chest pain associated with the up and down jostles of exercise.

Well, after I had Amaya, I had a natural enhancement. Like 5 sizes larger than I would have liked. Running did cause me pain, and I avoided certain movements.

Then I quit nursing. Joy of joys, I would soon return to my previous look, one that unmistakably says, "Girl," but not "moobs" or "stacked."

So the jostling of jogging and exercise returned. For some reason, the loss of elasticity in my body somehow dropped the fat to my middle, and I can see my gut more clearly than the area in between.
Plus I have a new problem, where my previous A cup is now unfilled. What do you do in such a case? Stuff? Less than an A is hard to find where I shop. If you look too closely at my shirt, the whole area just looks bunchy.

And here I am, with stretchmarks on my wall. Now that is a cosmic joke.