Better late than never

So newborn photos didn't quite happen.  Seven-week photos are almost as good, right?  Right...?   (What can I say – the whole having-jaundice thing for the first few weeks of her life kind of threw a wrench in my baby announcement/newborn photo plans.)

And you know I can't resist posting a few of my favorites:

She is a charmer...you can't even tell she fussed through most of the photo shoot, hah.

"Lets put her in a basket down the river, like Moses!"-Dustin

How do you turn pajamas into adorable outerwear?  By adding a headband, of course.

I think I am going to try it the next time I am tempted to leave the house in sweatpants.

But really, I currently dress my baby in sleepers almost every single day.  They are warm and she is currently going through an awkward stage where she is too tall for newborn clothes but too skinny for 0-3 month clothes.  I told her that if she feels awkward now, she better brace herself for middle school; if she is her momma's daughter, it is going to get ugly.

The pantless wonder strikes again!

My daughter's favorite spot to be in our entire apartment is on the changing table.  The second  I put her on there, she is all smiles.  I'm not sure if it's because (a) she's excited to get clean, (b) she loves the feel of the plush changing table cover, or (c) she's thinking, "Woo!  My pants are coming off!"

Why do I feel like it's the last one?

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.