Some of the joys of being a mom

Maybe it's just me, but I find that there are about a billion bits of information floating around in my head at all times. It's hard to keep things straight. It's hard to remember what's-her-face's-name or even finish a sentence because my normal vocabulary now consists primarily of a bunch of words I had no use for before and my audience doesn't have a clue what I'm saying and doesn't care as long as she gets my undivided attention.

I swear I almost went to church last week without actually putting on a skirt. Not that Joe would've purposely let me get out the front door with only nude-colored Spanks and a white half slip with slits in it hugging my ample butt and thighs, looking like a person would look hugging a big tub of Jell-o (is it weird that now I'm craving Jell-o, among every other unhealthy and delicious food item I've ever consumed in my lifetime thanks to writing that?). Still, I felt very proud of myself for noticing the almost-error before I was potentially seen by some unsuspecting poor soul driving or walking past our house at the exact WRONG moment.

And I feel bad for our neighbors. I really do. After all, nothing is sexier than seeing an overweight woman with a flabby baby gut who hasn't showered for at least a day (most likely) saunter past the window with a boob or two hanging out while she scrambles to soothe a crying child before she loses her sanity. Note to self: make sure blinds are closed and invest in blinds or at least curtains where there aren't any. And why might I be in this state of half-dress without being with the baby? Pumping breast milk.

Pumping is not fun. Not only do I feel like an actual cow while hooked up to the machine, but I'm just stuck there next to it until the torture is over. Some women rave about the hands-free bras. Seriously, those would make me feel MORE like a cow, and I don't think they'd get the job done for me. It's not like I have fountains of milk pouring out of me and only need to direct that milk into a container. And then there's the fact that I have to squeeze my one boob that is attached to the pump (I can't do both at the same time for this very reason) so I can get every drop possible of milk out or I feel like a cow failure. So I sit and pump while watching the TV or praying my child doesn't start screaming bloody murder or one-handed typing between unattractive squeezes of boob flesh and feeling like a complete moron.

And that's another thing. The whole TMI concept apparently doesn't exist for me anymore. I guess after being spit up on and race pooping to get back to a fussy baby and flashing neighbors and walking around half dressed because I can't justify the time it would take to find a shirt and pants that are actually clean and put them on while the baby's screams indicate she needs me NOW, I just don't care anymore. I gag when I have to yank the snot out of my daughter's nose or stick my finger in her ear to get a healthy amount of ear wax out or change a diaper full of oddly covered mounds of baby poop. But I still do it. So I figure if I have to suffer through those things, someone can read about how I have to do them and think, "Eww, TMI! TMI, lady!" Not that anyone mistakes me for a lady these days, but still.

I also have to plan outings around when I will need to pump or feed the baby or change her diaper or when she might nap or go to bed for the night. And if I don't and I'm not prepared to deal with the consequences, HELLO leaky boobs and the ever-stylish accompanying wet nipple look or screaming, demanding, headache-inducing child or yellowish-brown crap-covered baby clothes in the most inconvenient time and place EVER or panic attack about how the heck I'm going to deal with my oversight.

So my lack of posts these days aren't because I have nothing to write about. I know that no one really wants to READ about what I have to write about (but I did take a picture of a poopy diaper that literally looked like someone had squeezed a jar of mustard into it and sent it to Joe because I just HAD to share that with SOMEONE, even if he couldn't scratch & sniff the picture). And one-handed typing takes AGES and drives me crazy. So instead I post an occasional picture of my baby. I realize not everyone recognizes her as The Cutest Thing Alive and The Center of The Universe, but that's how my life has changed. And that's my biggest Joy.