Real babies wear pink.

I just don’t understand it.  Are there a lot of boy babies out there, running around, wearing pink clothing?! 

We had Sabine out the other day shopping.  She was wearing a pink shirt with a ladybug on it, jeans, and pink socks with hearts on them.  An older couple stops to talk to us (If you don’t know, LOTS of people stop you when you’re wandering around with a baby.  It’s nuts!) and the guy says, “How cute.  How old is he?”

“SHE is about 3 1/2 months,” I reply.  Not rude, just corrective. 

“Oooooh, he says.  Oops!  I thought it was a boy.”  IT!?  Come on!

This happens probably once a week.  I don’t know where these pink wearin’ boys are, but I assure you if I had a son dressed in pink, Brandon would have me committed.

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Confession:

I don’t want to start solids.  I don’t mean like, I don’t want to start solids next week or something.  I mean, I don’t want to start solids.  Ever.  I figure I’ll just let DD nurse until a year old and then I’ll continue to pump for the rest of forever.  Not really, that’s creepy.  But, let me try to explain what I mean …

This past weekend, Sabine went on a nursing strike.  I guess it was a nursing strike.  It only lasted half the day.  But, half the day was long enough to TOTALLY freak me out and scar me for life.  I would try to get her to nurse and she would just scream, and scream, and scream.  Finally, I pumped and gave her a bottle.  The first bottle I have EVER personally given her.  It was surreal.  And I hated it.  It was harder than nursing.  I had to heat it, and test it, and clean it.  Blech.  Too much work.  No fun.

Eventually, she went to sleep.  When she woke up, she nursed again as usual.  Odd.  And terrifying.

It made me think about weaning and about how heartbroken I’ll feel when she decides she’s a big girl and would rather have a sippy than to nurse.  Our pedi said we’d “talk” about starting cereal at four months, which at first I was excited about, but now I think I’ll say thanks, but no thanks.  What if that starts the weaning process.  What if at five months, she wants nothing to do with me and is all about a spoon and a bottle?  

Then she’d be onto a sippy, and then to feeding herself, and that whole beginning era would be over.  I’m just not sure I’m ready for that.

I realize that sounds a little selfish, but hell, she’s MY baby and I AM selfish with her.  I can be.  I am allowed that as a mom.  

Oh, shista! (Literally)

Ok, before I start, let me get this out … Word Press has changed the way EVERYTHING on this blog works and I do not like it.  You hear me, Word Press!?  I don’t like it!

Lets move on …

Sabine has had three, maybe four, poop blow outs in her entire life.  I don’t think that’s a very bad statistic, for a three month old.  In previous poop blow outs, the smell has been IMMEDIATE.  I mean, knock you down, “What DIED in here?” smell. 

Well, yesterday the Bean fell asleep shortly before dinner.  “Wonderful!” I thought.  “I’ll just let her nap and I will be able to actually EAT at the same time as Brandon and without holding a baby!”  She slept through meal-prep, all the way through dinner.  She slept through dishes.  It was great.

I heard her start to stir over the monitor but she wasn’t screaming or even grunting.  Just kinda talking to herself.  I went into her room to check on her and saw a happy, smiling baby.  She was sooooooo cute that I immediately scooped her up to cover her with kisses.  And I was immediately covered in poop.

There was poop all the way up the front of her diaper, out one leg hole, out the back.  Poop in her bed.  Poop on her.  Poop ALL over me.  It was horrible.  It was one of those diaper explosions that its easier to just haul both of us into the shower than to even attempt to tackle it with wipes.  The entire time though, she was smiling!

So, this gives me two questions … first, why was I not knocked out by the poop smell?  Either my cold is worse than I thought and I have lost all smelling ability, or my child has learned to completely de-stinkify poop.  And more importantly, why is my child not bothered by the fact that there was poop ALL over her!? 

I’m going to have that dirty, stinky child that all the other kids make fun of.  I just know it.  At least MY nose won’t be able to smell it! 

I can no longer shop for myself.

So, last night I bought a suit.  A $280 Michael Kors’ suit that was marked down to $100.  It is, quite possibly, the most wonderful thing I have ever owned.  I have never felt more beautiful than I do in “THE suit”.  I don’t even think I felt more beautiful at my wedding.  It has a trapeze jacket and the pants are in a teeny tiny size I never thought I would see again.  It is perfect.  And, being that I work and do suit-worthy things, having a nice summer suit is definitely a necessity. 

So, why do I feel like I’m going to throw up every time I think about the price tag?  Why do I keep contemplating running back to return it?  I mean, I have the $100 to spend.  It’s not like I’m going to be eating ramen noodles and Rice-A-Roni for the next month because I bought “THE suit”.  (I may eat ramen noodles, but that is because I LIKE them.  Not because I HAVE to.  Big distinction.)  No, it’s not a money thing at all.  I have become unable to shop for myself.

Would I think twice about blowing $100 on clothes for Sabine?  Clothes she will outgrow in three, maybe less, months?  Nope.  Not at all.  I have done it before and I’m sure I’ll do it again.  I wouldn’t even think twice about dropping $100 on a new dog bed.  I wouldn’t think twice about picking up some Wii game for Brandon while out shopping, to the tune of $60 or so.  But, I can’t spend that on myself.  I have put myself so low on the totem pole I feel as if my needs no longer matter … and my wants CERTAINLY don’t.

Brandon keeps saying, “You DESERVE “THE suit”.”  I deserve it?  I deserve a nap maybe.  An amaretto sour with dinner on Friday.  Do I deserve a $100 suit?  I don’t know.  Brandon practically forced me at pacifier point to buy the stupid thing last night.  Maybe I’ve become too practical.  Maybe I’ve stopped caring about what I look like at all. 

I guess I should be thankful that I have a husband who forces me to take time out for me.  To do little things for myself.  Otherwise I’d be stomping into our next big meeting wearing a spit-up encrusted sweater.  Circa ’02.  That would be good for no one.