As previously mentioned, I wrote out Scotty's and my breastfeeding story for another blog...I have to give Emily, the site's creator, major credit for actually publishing my story. When I contacted her initially, I was a little sniffy about a site totally dedicated to the "joys" and "wonders" of breastfeeding (because as we all know, I had very few joys and/or wonders, except to wonder why the heck I'm torturing myself and my baby). She assured me that she intended the blog to be for everyone - whether you breastfed or not - and welcomed all submissions.

So I wrote out our story. And as we all know, it isn't pretty.

But she published it. And after a quick review of the other submissions, I realized that all of them except mine are pro-breastfeeding, "you can do it, sister" type of stories. And honestly, well, I think this kind of thinking is not only somewhat irresponsible, but dangerous as well. Nothing against the other writers, but the thing is, women need to talk about what happens when breast feeding doesn't work out and when to throw in the towel. The uber-cheerleader mentality can be helpful, but again, we are talking about life and death in some cases (not to mention the demonization of formula).

So read it if you get a chance. You can find it at:

http://www.simplegiftstories.blogspot.com/

And big thanks to Emily for allowing me to guest write.

Okay, my review of the last episode of 'The Bachelorette' is coming soon, although I will admit I don't have a lot to say...I think it went as we all expected. I give Ali major credit for letting Chris go as gently and with as much respect as she did, and major props to him for his class act during 'After the Final Rose.' And you know what? I'm rooting for Ali and Roberto. I really am. I hope they make it. This show has turned me from a cynic to a romantic and I have my fingers crossed for them. I know, it's crazy - just months after the flaming pile of doggie doo-doo that was Jake and Vienna, I'm believing that love can happen on this show.

I must be getting soft in my old age.

But not too soft. In a total out-of-character moment for me yesterday, I contacted a local blogger who writes about breastfeeding. I had been sent the link by the LC that saw Scotty during the first week of his life. (Inexplicably, I am still on the email list serve.) Reading over the blog just brought back all those bad feelings that I had during Scotty's first few weeks of life, and I sent the blogger an email saying (essentially), "Don't knock formula; it saved my kid's life."

Well, she wrote back to me and asked if I would share my story on her site. And I am. I'm going to try to have it finished by this weekend, and I'll be sure to post the link here. If there is one thing I am passionate about (aside from appropriate treatment by in-laws), it's jaundice. I want every person in the world to know the dangers of jaundice, if it goes untreated, and if I could prevent anyone else from having to go through what we went through, I will. The written word is a powerful tool, so I'm using it. And hopefully, it will make a difference.

Pumping = Dunzo.

And like most things, it ended with a whimper, not a bang.

My last official day of pumping was March 18, 2010, exactly seven months after greeting our little Bear to our world. I made it seven solid months of pumping and I'm pretty darn proud of myself. I can't think of one thing on a daily basis for seven months - diets, making my bed, working out - and through all of the crying, complaining, and flat-out swearing, I made it. Three breast pumps, four sets of pumpers, countless ounces of spilled milk on my counters, I made it.

Whew.

I'm also really happy that Scotty had almost exclusively breast milk for the first six months of his life. After I hit the six month mark, I started to eliminate one pump every few days, and eventually end up only pumping once a day for about a week. I was only getting about three ounces at that point, and for twenty minutes worth of work, I decided to throw in the towel.

And what did I do to celebrate? Well, Brian and I tossed around a few ideas. After all, this is the first time my body has belonged to me and just exclusively me for the better part of two years. I don't know if you know what that feels like (unless of course, you just had a baby and are breast feeding, too), but it's weird. Just plain weird. All the fun things in life - caffeine, alcohol, cold medicine, dairy - were shelved completely during the process of conceiving and pregnancy, and after the birth, then I gradually added a few things back in (mainly caffeine and wine.) But now? My body is allllll mine. What a weird feeling. I don't have to worry about onions and garlic.  A second cup of coffee? Sure, why not. A three day vodka bender? Bring it on. (Just kidding, Mom.)

So Brian and I thought maybe I should have a stiff drink. Or a hit of a crack pipe. (again, just kidding). But in the end, I settled for some Advil to help with my back pain. Along with several other body parts, I don't think my back will ever be the same again. After hoisting around an additional 47 pounds during the pregnancy, I followed that up with grueling back labor and seven months of being hunched over a breast pump six to eight times a day. My chiropractic bills are going rival our wedding.

So anyways, I'm pretty happy.  I'm doing far less dishes during the day (since those nasty pumpers have been boxed up and sealed from the light of day, much in the manner of the Arc of the Covenant in Indiana Jones and Raiders of the Lost Arc.) Scotty is sleeping like a champ and I'm not rushing off to pump, so my days are literally...luxurious. I kind of feel like I'm cheating. Like this is supposed to be harder. But it's not. And that is fine with me.

Remember how I once complained that stay-at-home-moms have a harder day than working mom? Yeah, that's not true anymore. I think I was really sleep-deprived (read: crazy) when I wrote that. You couldn't force me back to work if you tried. (Just ask Brian. I told him I would have to be hog-tied and dragged to an interview, and when he removed the bandana from my mouth, I would shout at the interviewer, "Don't pick me! Don't pick me! I'm a terrible worker!" Poor Brian has no idea that I am never going back to work. I got a slice of the stay-at-home pie...and I'm loving it.) 

And best yet, I even hired someone to come once a week for "Me-Time." This is usually three to five hours that I entrust the little Bear to our lovely baby-sitter, and I hightail it to Target, the gym, or the nail salon. (I know, I know, please stop gagging.) And last week, a lunch date with friends was canceled at the last minute, so with three hours ahead of me and an afternoon without a baby, I thought to myself, "Where can I go to relax and eat a nice meal?"

And so I ended up at my favorite spot in all of Las Vegas:

The Four Seasons.

Ahhh, tasteful elegance. I won't bore you with the details of my delicious lunch (Crab Louis salad, iced tea, lemon tart for dessert) but just know, I'm surviving this whole Motherhood thing just fine. (and it's not all easy...I had to send my salad back since I had asked for the dressing on the side. Then I lost my valet ticket, which translated to several awkward minutes waiting for my car.) Poor Brian came home from work that night as I excitedly told him about my day and his only comment was, "I guess I need to work harder to afford your me-time." Ahh, a husband who understands! I'm a lucky girl.

The weather here in Vegas was just terrible today. It was about 45 degrees and rainy. People actually cancel appointments when it rains. It's like the Midwestern equivalent of an ice storm. I guess when you live in the desert, anything that falls from the sky is slightly disturbing.

Two scary events happened today...

First, my breast pump died! I cannot tell you how traumatic this was. I had an inkling that his days were numbered but the actual end was unexpected and rather tragic. I mean, Mr. Medela Lactina has been with me through a lot. Scotty's ambulance ride. Scotty's second homecoming. My re-lactation. DairyGate. I have probably spent more time with this pump than my own husband.

Medela Lactina had been wheezing for about a week now, and after a quick review of systems, my (very basic) diagnostic test came back positive for motor failure. The little guy managed to eek it out through my early morning pump (usually a 30+ minute adventure) but by noon, he had joined the other good breast pumps in the sky. I packed Scotty in the warmest outfit I could manage (onesie, pants, sock, sweater, and I installed his 'Bundle Me' in his car seat) and headed out to the lactation center. Thankfully, the women at the front desk didn't ask too many questions (like, how often did you use this? I would have had to reply, "At least six times a day for the past four months, usually averaging 20-30 minutes per pump. That comes out to approximately 15,725 minutes of use.  Yes, I used the beejesus out of your pump. And thank you for giving this to me for free" -- which, inexplicably, they 'scholarship-ed' us the pump so we haven't paid a dime -- "as I now return it to you, deader than a doornail. Sorry about that.") 

I was given a replacement pump and quickly hightailed it out of the center before they could plug the old guy back in. The less questions, the better.

(In my defense, I did try to get Scotty back on the boob...it just never worked. I'm sure these pumps are not made for in the insane amount of use I have put them through, but what's a girl to do? Scotty's gotta eat.)

And so, R.I.P., Medela Lactina Serial Number 309485. You will be missed. XOXO.

And the second scary thing to happen today...

Just as I was preparing to pump (honest! My whole life really does revolve around pumping), there was a knock at the door. Now, many of you would probably think, "Hmm. There have been some shady folks in Kim's life lately. Weird people in the neighborhood. You would think she would learn her lesson and not answer the door."  You would think.

But I swear, I was a cat in another lifetime, and yes, we all know how it ended after that bout with curiosity. Thankfully, I hadn't started pumping yet and when I looked through the peephole, I was practically blinded by the green and gold figure standing on the porch. Yes, GanstaBoy was back. The Packers were on Monday night and GanstaBoy was wearing his colors. How could I forget?

He, again, asked if Brian was home. At least this time I didn't have to lie - Brian was still at work. (he was taping the game, but I casually omitted that fact.) GanstaBoy then proceeded to tell me about his job ("It's going great!"), his wife ("Well, we're not married yet, but I still call her my wife." I snorted and told him that once you're married, it's not going to feel nearly so clever), and the Packers' season. He still looked a little too eager for my liking (no, there is NO chance I will turn on football if Brian is not in the home, and there is NO CHANCE IN HELL I will invite GanstaBoy in if Brian is not home) so I rather bluntly told him that DirecTV is offering all kinds of holiday specials and he should look into. I have no idea if that is even true, but it was worth a shot. He got the hint (?) and left.

I'm off to curl up on the couch and watch a tape-delayed Packer game (yaaaaay. Not really). This storm is moving east, so it looks like it will touch all of us. Be sure to stay warm!

Oh, sh*t. More sh*t.

Yes, this will be a post about poop. Again. Both the literal and metaphorical kind.

Clearly, poop is the new black. We've covered CatheterGate, SwaddleGate, and now I bring you...PoopGate. We have worked through various baby challenges -- sleep schedules, dairy intolerance, and breast-feeding difficulties. I guess we are simply making our way through all normal new-parent challenges, with the next one clearly centered on elimination. Or in our case, the lack of elimination.

Dr. Awesome did not return my phone call until Sunday morning (the fact that she works on Sunday still makes her awesome, in my opinion. I will forgive the fact that she took almost 24 hours to return my call.) The poor medical assistant I spoke with on Saturday afternoon told me to "continue the juices." I promptly replied with, "How much, how often, what dilution of water, and for how long?" only to be met with a meek, "I'm just the messenger. I don't know." Frustrating, to say the least. We gave Scotty some apple juice on Sunday morning, which he promptly vomited ALL of it on our couch. Dr. Awesome happened to call 30 minutes later and she asked us to come in. I was kind of freaking out at this point since I had never seen him throw up this much. I also was not in agreement with the idea of supplementing regular feeds with juice feeds (2oz of apple juice mixed with 2oz of water) since it lacked the same consistency of breast milk. But more on that later.

So, I packed up the Bear and headed out. We had given him the suppository about an hour before she called, so I had a nice, fat diaper to show her. See? Cat ownership once again translates into parenthood. It's the old axiom, "Always bring in a fecal sample." And what a sample we had -- I think it was still steaming by the time I got to the office.

She and I went through the usual exam (this time, it included a rectal exam - ouch). She continued to seem baffled since Scotty is primarily breastfed. She kept saying, "He should be pooping at least every other day." And then I would say, "But he's not." And then she would say, "But he should be." And then I would say, "But he's not." This circular conversation continued for about 20 minutes until she finally gave me a referral to a G.I specialist with strict instructions to call by Wednesday if he has not pooped on his own.

And then, before she left, she uttered the words I dread to hear.

"It must be the breastmilk."

Brian had echoed a similar sentiment earlier in the week. I'm guessing that perhaps you, too, my readers, might be thinking the same thing. So, to avoid any confusion, let me be very clear:

IT'S NOT THE BREASTMILK.

Is this how women slowly turn crazy? It is, I think. I've worked with enough depressed, post-menopausal women in practice to know that the majority of us women will probably lose our minds once we reach 50. (no offense, Mom. This stat does not include you. Yet. [haha]). Seriously - these down-trodden martyrs would slowly limp into my office, harping about their children who don't call enough, some no-good ex-husband, and their weight problems while we were still in the hallway.  They wouldn't even wait for the quiet of my office before starting their diatribe. They were all avid Oprah-watchers. They all had fibromylagia and thyroid problems. They were tough, tough clients to work with because there was not a lot of motivation to employ new behaviors and they relished in complaining about the state of their lives.  And interestingly enough, I went through a thorough clinical intake with them, complete with a co-written treatment plan, without ever thinking to ask, "At any point in your life, did anyone ever criticize your breast milk?"

Is this how it starts? Were those women once vivacious, thoughtful, insight people? Did the slow progression towards martyrdom start when they tried to breast feed their children, only to be told at every turn that when their child was allegedly sick, it must be their fault?  Were they beaten down and blamed?  Because it is really is crazy-making. My self-confidence is slowly ebbing away when people make this comment, even though my rational brain is screaming, "It's not the breast milk!" I may not know what is wrong, if anything, but I feel very certain it is not me.

I mean, am I going to be at fault for every single thing that Scotty ever does or fails to do? I don't think so. One day, he is going to be his own person and will be making his own choices. And with that, I'm doing the best I can. I haven't cheated on my breast milk diet. I have cut out every single thing that could possibly cause him harm or discomfort. (I realized last week, to my horror, that gone are the days of the Pumpkin Spice Latte at Starbucks. Ushered in for the holiday season: Gingerbread Lattes. I missed it. I missed the whole PSL season. It really happened - an entire fall with only one or two PSLs. Shocking but true.) I am literally living on eggs, toast, turkey sandwiches, and roasted chicken. And the occasional dose of Halloween candy (and cookies). So no, people. IT'S NOT THE BREAST MILK.

Why are we so quick to blame the Mom?  I have control of 90% of his life right now, but I do not have control of his GI track.  And not to mention, I feel like I know my child quite well by now. I have worked my bum off to get him to sleep, to sleep in the crib, to sleep un-swaddled (for the most part.) I've worked to get him to track objects, to grasp objects, and to reach for objects. I know how to calm him, how to soothe him, and how to put him down for both nap-time and bed-time. I know which binkie he prefers (the orange one), his favorite toy (Mr. HappyCow), and how to rock him to sleep (upright sway with a slight bounce.)

I have been the sole caretaker of this child for the past 10 weeks, 20 hours a day, 5 days a week. That means since mid-September, I have put in darn near 1,000 of primary care-giving. According to Malcolm Gladwell, author of 'Outliers,' a person needs 10,000 hours of practice before they master an activity. Which means I'm 1/10 of the way there. I practically have a PhD in Scotty-Bear.

It also means...IT'S NOT THE BREAST MILK.  My mom-gut reaction is that everything is totally and completely fine. He's just not a big pooper. I plan to take him to the specialist later this week, and that is for reassurance only. 

I just hate it when others turn the finger to me and call out the breast milk. Trust me, I am working my butt off for this child. I am still pumping, for goodness sake! Three months of pumping is enough to drive anyone mad.  I wish I was stronger to just ignore the comments, but I admit, it gets to me.  It plants seeds in my head that make me think, "What if I'm wrong? What if they are right? What am I missing?" and it is crazy-making. My track record may not be stellar at this point (jaundice will forever be a dirty word to me), but I fear I will turn into that post-menopausal women when I hit my 50s if things continue at this rate. Unsure, timid, passive-aggressive, and wounded.

So let me just say, for the record: be kind to new moms. We are fragile creatures.  Think of us as soft, malleable objects - we haven't hardened into Parental Pros just yet. I still have 9,000 more hours until I am a master.  We are open to suggestion, but sometimes, comments are unwarranted and downright unhelpful. And please, never, ever comment on the breast milk. 

I have to type this fast, before Brian comes downstairs, or else he is going to yell at me. I really should be going to bed. ::whiny voice:: but I'm not tired!

Anyways, long story short, I went to see the lactation consultant on Friday. Was interested in getting the baby back on the boob. Was hoping for some sage advice and some ideas to up production.

Instead, I got nothing. The LC was more interested in asking me "how everything turned out." (she was the first LC we saw on Day 4). Well, I still have a baby, so that's a good sign. She also told me, with wide eyes, that she (and our fired ped) had never seen a bilirubin at 29, because, "that means the baby would have like...died."  Um, no, my dear LC. 29 isn't even really that high -- I told her about the other stories I've read where the numbers were up to 54. Not to mention, a lot depends on the age of the baby and the baby's weight. I asked her if she knew what kernicterus was and she said no. Strike one, two, three, four to a million. How can you be an LC and NOT know about kernicterus? That is essentially the only possible thing that you would ever have to worry about.

Her sage advice to get the baby back on the boob was to...put the baby on the boob. I'm not kidding. Really? Because I would have never thought of that! I was trying to get him to latch on to my ankle. (grr...)

But finally, the reason I'm typing this now (and am clearly irritated at the moment, as evidenced by my sarcasm) is that I told her about all of the milk I had frozen in my freezer and how it was "all bad." She gave me this convoluted answer and swore that 1.) it is not bad and 2.) if Scotty really had a lactose intolerance, he would not be able to drink my breast milk, since it is "full of lactose." She assured me that there was nothing in my diet that could possibly affect him since it is all an old wive's tale. So, eat away! Cheese, beans, onions, caffeine. Have at it. Per the LC.

I was rather pleased to hear this on Friday, so on Saturday, I defrosted a few bags. Thought I'd try it out. I gave Scotty some of the defrosted milk this morning and WRONG!

Let me say that again. WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG.

I have been dealing with the fussiest baby ever since 1pm. He will not go down for a nap. He's up, he's down, he's gassy, he's bloated, and he looks seriously pissed. Brian and I threw him in the car this evening for a SIXTY minute car drive and he fussed the whole time. He looked so miserable I felt terrible. Brian gave him some formula around 9 and he finally settled down. The poor guy.

Needless to say, Brian is mad. He told me tonight, "You are NEVER going back to see those people." I agree 100%. So far, they are batting 0. They have gotten literally everything wrong that we have asked them. It seems when we do it our way, things go okay. When we take their advice, it is crash and burn.

Ugh, so frustrating.

The Top Ten Ways You Know You Are Lactating...

10.)  Wearing just a tank top seems obscene.

9.)  When a food particle falls into your shirt, it takes you 20 minutes to find it.

8.) See #9 - You avoid hibachi grills for this very reason - God forbid the chef picks you to toss the shrimp at.

7.)  Your husband doesn't bat an eyelash when he comes from work to find you pumping on the couch, watching Oprah and talking on the phone. And the person on the other line doesn't care that you are pumping, either.

6.) You haven't been this topless this Spring Break '99 in Cancun.*

5.)  You commonly refer to yourself as the 'Grocery Store.' 

4.) You can eat like a sumo wrestler. (You might not be  losing weight, but at least you are not gaining weight. "Why yes, thank you, I would like a second donut.")

3.) Not only do both breasts have names, but they also have personalities. (Lefty is clearly an eager-to-please socialist that is quick to respond; Old Righie is a curmudgeonly old coot that is rather conservation and slow to produce, though rich in hindmilk.)

2.)  Even after toweling off after a shower, you are still dripping.

and finally, the number one way you know you are lactating...

1.) You spend so much time by yourself (or with the baby) that you start to write 'Top Ten' lists in your head.

*Hi, Mom. Don't worry - I never been to Spring Break in Cancun. I'd like to think I was rather conservative in college (and still am.)

Just really, really tired today.

Had a meltdown around 6pm (Scotty, not me). Now I am worried about what I ate yesterday and am afraid to use that milk supply.

Is breast feeding supposed to be that hard? Seriously, this is getting ridiculous. I don't know how I'm supposed to live for the next few months if I am constantly worrying about I am eating. Are babies really that sensitive to a mom's diet? All I had last night was a nice steak and a small caesar salad. Was it the dressing? (no raw eggs) Was it the steak sauce?

I'm back to my turkey-sandwich with grapes meal. And we had grilled organic chicken tonight with green grapes and baby carrots, and then I had berries for dessert. It's healthy but so darn boring.

We're doing formula tonight just to make sure that we don't have a screaming child at 2am.

Then again, the meltdown could have been the time of day (twilight), it could have been he was overtired, overstimulated, maybe his diaper was on too tight...or nothing at all. Maybe he just felt like screaming.

This is what I hate about Motherhood. It's such a guessing game and you never know when you have the right answer.

Oh, well. 

Seriously, I'm not kidding. I just can't figure out if I should sell it on eBay or Craiglist.

And my other working title for this post (that I crafted in my head while at the grocery store) was "Over-feeding, over-producing, and overwhelmed."

Yes, folks, it has been a rough couple of days.

So it all started last Thursday when we went to see the new ped. Love her - very thorough, very calming, and she even managed a small giggle when I told I would be requiring a lot of hand-holding through this process.

Her first order of business during our exam was to press on Scotty's stomach and watch him vomit. "You are over-feeding this infant, no?" she asked in her light Indian accent. I immediately looked at my mom (accusingly, I admit). Grandma "You Can't Over-feed An Infant" Karen blanched slightly, and we turned over the food journal with some reluctance, eyes downcast. Yes, you CAN actually over feed an infant. Five to six ounces of milk per feeding is a ridiculous amount of food (please refer to the post where I ponder if Scotty had a hollow leg) and that's (allegedly) why he was spitting up. But again, per Dr. Awesome, it wasn't just spit-up, it was full-on vomit.

Oh.

So, Grandma Karen (who is clearly more mentally flexible than I am) immediately adapts to the new info, while I stewed, cried, and fretted for about six hours. At the next feeding, when Scotty did better with less spit-up, I relented and so, the three-ounce feeding was born (again).

So that was like 10 days ago. Where are we now? Oh...no better place.

The fussiness started on Monday. After the miracle that is the Happiest Baby on Block, Brian has the crying at night under control. Except Scotty continues to spit-up. And fuss. And cry.  Not at every feeding, but at most. Monday was horrible, Tuesday was great. Wednesday was horrible, Thursday was fine. Friday was horrible. Wednesday, in fact, was so horrible that when Brian told me he had to go to storage (our massive, cramped and roach-infested storage) to find our damn cable box (that I packed in 2007, and now that we are Direct TV consumers, the good people at Cox Communications were threatening bodily harm if we didn't return the damn box), that I offered to go digging through our massive, cramped, roach-infested storage because quite frankly, it was better than hanging out with a five-week old baby. (and miraculously, I found the damn box within about 10 minutes and without having to move great amounts of stuff. I drove around for 20 minutes and told Brian it took me 30 minutes to find the box.)

I saw Dr. Awesome again on Thursday (she looked at me pleasantly and said, "Back again?" with a smile. I had called her Saturday, Monday, and now it was Thursday. Yes, I am medically needy.) She listened patiently as I described his symptoms (arching of the back after feeding, crying, some spit-up, and increase in fussiness.) It could be the dreaded "5-6 week peak" of fussiness, but since he's not waking up crying (in the middle of the nap), he's gaining weight, and there is no coughing or gagging going on, she thought it might be a response to something in the breast milk. I.e. something I've eaten that is getting to him.

Now, I know there are two camps on this - the one camp that says, "Eat away! Babies are NOT affected by flavors in the mom's breast milk," and the other camp that says, "Eliminate everything - caffeine, chocolate, alcohol, spicy foods, cabbage, broccoli, curry, cauliflower, beans, citrus foods, wheat, eggs, and dairy" in order to rule out possible allergies and/or gas-producing foods. I don't know what camp to believe, as most things in Motherhood (yes, capital M) are confusing, contradictory, and generally, a quadmire of misinformation. One day I will write a post about all of the contradictions, but since I'm discovering more and more on a daily basis, I'm waiting for the list to slow down a little.

I also want to point out that once again, it's me. All through the pregnancy, the baby was always fine - it was just my damn body that was doing something funky. (fibroids, fluid, pressure, oh my). And now, it is me, once again, that is hurting the baby (allegedly). I'm trying really hard to not beat myself up over this, but it's really, really hard. I will likely be in therapy in the next few years (months) and we're already saving for Scotty's therapy in about 24 years. If I sound horribly self-depreciating, it's because I am.

Anyways, I am plugging ahead with the conviction of a terrier puppy and I WILL figure this out. As of today, we are going with only-formula for the next 48 hours, to rule out me as a possible cause of this. If Scotty shows no spit-up, no arching of the back, and no general fussiness, I take full blame (and change my diet asap). If he doesn't, we'll proceed with the testing required to determine if it's GERD. We are officially 3 feedings into our experiment, and I'm happy to report: no spit-up. No fussy baby. In fact, we have a lovely, alert baby that progressed into happy sleep cycles. Motherhood: 2, Kim: 0. 

And so, I went to the grocery store to stock up on new foods. My cart looked like I was joining a new religion that had dietary restrictions: green grapes, apple juice, organic chicken, soy milk, bottled water, almonds, an avocado, bananas, and two cucumbers. I know, this probably sounds healthy to most, but let's just say it's not my normal shopping list. Even the woman at check-out looked at me strangely. She was probably wondering where the Doritos were. I wanted to tell her, "I'm lactating," but I figured that might freak her out. As if she couldn't already guess based on the size of my boobs.

All of this leads me to the title of this post: we're got some breast milk for sale. I have been so proud of my pumping - I've been very committed to getting production back up to par - and now, per Brian, "The milk is bad." He uttered those five words yesterday and it nearly broke my heart. There were 9 3-ounce bags (i.e. single serving size) in the fridge, and almost 40+ ounces in the freezer. And all are tainted with the flavors of caffeine, chocolate, onion, garlic, and hoppy beer (only one per day! I showed such restraint).

If our experiment works out and it IS me, I'm not sure what to do with the last two weeks of my hard work. How should I phrase my ad on Craiglist? "Rich, full-bodied 60 ounces of breast milk available. Aged two weeks, light garlic flavor with a hint of dark chocolate. Pair with recently-sterilized binky and Mylicon drops for a satisfying meal."

::sigh::