First: Brian hit it on the head with this, the thought process of a new dad. Except with Dim, instead of X-Box, it’s World of Warcraft (God help me. He quit for a while, but then it sucked him back in. I’m a WoW widow again.)
My morning starts (depending on your definition of morning, of course) at six am, when I haul the Bean into bed with me because by that time of the morning I cannot stay both upright AND conscious to nurse her. I plop her in the bed between Dim and me and flop out a boobie to feed her.
Note to the male (not including my dad) readers: I realize this is the unsexiest description of my boobage ever written. Watching women nurse is beautiful, but decidedly unsexy. Watching me nurse must be like watching a tipped Holstein feed a chimpanzee.
Note to my dad: Sorry for that mental image.
I leave her with her eyes rolled back in her head in lacto-ecstasy in the bed and go about my morning business. I check my email - No messages again? Damn. - read my daily blogs, Watch Ze’s Show, lament the fact that I haven’t blogged since the Clinton administration, and work the NYT crossword puzzle.*
I try to think of witty things to post about, but they all involve my boobs and/or the Bean. My single, kidless friends’ heads will explode if I discuss either of those any more.
And then I worry: Am I limited in my repertoire of witty banter to that which involves childrearing? What happened to my ability to discuss literature, politics, art, and fine dining? And then I realize: my boobs are leaking again.
BOOBS. BOOBS. BOOBS.
Note to my dad: Sorry again.
I go downstairs to fix myself some food and notice for the thirtieth time that there is dried spit-up crusted in the Graco logo of the Bean’s car seat buckle. *sigh* I really have to chip that out.
I’m two bites into a PB&J sandwich when she starts squawking again, and the process repeats itself. Still no messages. Man, I’m a loser.
So happy 4th all, and remember, above all else: BOOBS.
sorry dad.
BONUS: Here is the sign posted on the door for my July 4th BBQ guests.
*unless it’s Friday or Saturday, when I blink my blank, blank eyes at the sea of white squares in the puzzle and think to myself: what’s a five letter word for a foolish or stupid person?