I can almost taste it.

Kayla has terrible acid reflux, and a few days before Christmas my doctor told me to go off dairy. (Look kid, we need to talk. First you make me miss Thanksgiving dinner, and now this?)

I will not lie – it has been really, really hard. You don't realize how many foods have dairy until you can't eat them. I was incredibly close to giving up on nursing, but luckily for her, I am an accountant and the thought of spending $100 a month on formula makes me die a little on the inside.  Also, I quite enjoy eating Nutella straight from the jar while still losing weight.

I am crossing my fingers she will outgrow her sensitivity by three months like many babies do. But you know you have hit a low point when you stare at the leftover pizza your husband brought home from work and then eat the crust off of a slice. Oh cheese, why have you abandoned me???

Technically, we still need to throw him out.

We have now killed Javier the Third. I don't want to talk about it. (What, you didn't even know we killed Javier the Second? You are so behind the times.)

No, I kid! Of course I want to talk about it!

He actually got fatally injured on his first day with us, and we have been watching him suffer and life slowly bleed out of him ever since. I think we are too smart to try Javier the Fourth.

Life tip: do not leave your newly purchased plant in the car on a hot summer day when you decide to peruse furniture at the store next to Ikea just for funsies. It will burn to death. Just like Javier the Second. And no amount of water will save it.

Thing One and Thing Two

Dustin and I have what we call our Things. His Thing is leaving his crumbled up receipts everywhere in the house instead of throwing them away. I know, I know - I do not understand it any more than you do.

My Thing is spilling everywhere. On me, on the couch, on the floor. It just happens. Dustin has graciously accepted it although for some reason I am no longer allowed to eat crackers in bed.

I might have taken my Thing a little too far though.

It is Kayla's third outfit of the day and my second. The first wardrobe change was not my fault. Two words: explosive poop. I will leave it at that. (Three posts in a row mentioning poop! I like to keep it classy.)

But while I was eating some peanut butter toast for lunch, I miiiight have dripped melted peanut butter all over her clothes. Parenting fail. It's a very good thing a peanut allergy doesn't run in my family.

"Numbing spray...I'll let you figure out what that is for."

[Warning: TMI post about childbirth unpleasantness! Not for the easily embarrassed or squeamish or my dad!]

So labor? Piece of cake. Not a particularly delicious piece of cake, mind you, but at least once it's over, it's over.

But the recovery – nobody talks about the recovery!

My friend said it best when she told me, “You will lose all dignity in the hospital.” Labor is bad enough – you bleed, tear, get stitched up, and parts of you which are better left unseen are front and center. (But for the record, I did not poop on the table! I've never been so proud.)

But afterward, I still had a shred of dignity left. Even after a nurse put one-size-fits-most granny panties and a diaper-sized pad on me, I still had dignity. But then I was wheeled down to recovery, and told that a nurse was required to help me use the bathroom.

I held it for a long time. Oh yes, as long as I could muster (which, post-childbirth, was about 30 seconds after the urge came). But that fateful moment came when I got the required help. She walked me to the bathroom. She sat me down on the toilet. She proceeded to instruct me on the 10-step process on going to the bathroom, and then she watched. And then I flushed my remaining dignity down the toilet.

I will never have a clean shirt again.

It's hard to believe that my baby is almost eight-weeks old! Her favorite things to do are being held, looking around, and chewing on my shirt. (An honorable mention goes to pooping and then staring me down defiantly.)

Earlier this week, I had a huge wet spot on my shirt. This, my friends, was not caused by Kayla chewing on me, or even drooling on me. No, no. It was caused by her licking me. Over and over and over. She is adorable...but oh so very odd.

You know you can't have a blog and not tell your birthing story in excruciating detail

Thanksgiving morning, I woke up about 5:30 with some back pain that would last for a little while and then go away.  I thought, "Self, maybe these are contractions."  But I wasn't reallllly sure, being my first baby and all.  (Spoiler alert: they were.)

Around 9:30 I accepted that yes, these really are contractions, but maybe I could still make my family's Thanksgiving dinner!  Never mind the fact that the contractions were less than 10 minutes apart - they weren't THAT painful.  And surely, I wouldn't need to go to the hospital for just a little bit of pain!  I almost started making the apple pie I had signed up for, but luckily I have a husband who talks me out of my crazy.  

About an hour later I told Dustin that we were probably not going to make dinner after all.  And 30 minutes later I announced that we better actually pack our hospital bag and get there STAT, because these contractions were not messing around (less than 5 minutes apart, lasting at least a minute, and...ouch).

The entire car ride down there I fretted between worrying that (1) we had waited to long and it would be too late for my epidural and (2) the hospital would tell me it's false labor and to go home.

We got to the hospital around 11:30 and I was very relieved that I got to skip triage.  I got changed into my very flattering hospital gown, and waited.  When the nurse checked me I was dilated to a 6.  I breathed a sigh of relief that I wasn't being just a huge baby about the contractions and there really was something going on down there, and I asked for my epidural ASAP.

The good news about having a baby on a major holiday is that the labor & delivery unit was pretty empty, because who wants to be induced on Thanksgiving?  So the anesthesiologist was actually waiting outside the door for us to be ready for him.  I do love that service.

By the time the epidural kicked in I was an 8.5.  And let me say, more power to all you natural-birth ladies, but oh boy am I thankful for modern medicine!  Life was pretty good after that.

I napped for a bit and by 2:00 I was a 10, but my doctor had me wait another hour before pushing.  My doctor showed up at 3:05 and told me that most first-time moms push for 1-3 hours.

Hearing this, Dustin took the opportunity to use the bathroom, thinking that he was in it for the long haul.  As I pushed through the first contraction, the nurse started yelling at Dustin to get out of the bathroom because he was going to miss it.  Dustin ran out and at 3:16 PM, after the second contraction, our daughter was here.

My doctor marveled that she was going to make her Thanksgiving dinner at four.  What can I say?  I am a people pleaser.

Kayla Renae, thanks for not making us wait until your due date to get here.

For Cari

Today, I listened to the great Christmas classic, "All I Want For Christmas is You."  What?  It's only October 4?

I can't be blamed!  It came up while my iPod was on shuffle.  My iPod wanted me to listen to that song.  At work.  While dancing foolishly in my seat.

And then it wanted me to push the back button so I could listen to it again.

Told you.  Can't be blamed.