Nursing my Benjamin Button ~ February 6, 2014

A shallow latch on an engorged breast looks, and feels, a lot like I imagine nipple clamps on a dairy cow do. Frustrating, pointless, and disturbing. Add to that the squished up little angry old man face screaming at me and you have the perfect reason as to why they send you home with percocet after giving birth. If your body doesn't need it you sure as shit need it for your mental health. But I stopped taking it a couple days ago so now my only hope is to recover from preeclampsia so I can drink.

But now he's asleep at my breast. Milk drunk, angelic, serene. This is how we are now the parents of two. The sex made us stupid, the first made us crazy enough to try again, and the second is here to help finish us off so our transformation into dithering sentimental potty obsessed parents is complete with finger painting on top. Some day, if lucky, Jamie and I will be old and grinning madly at people like manic marionettes with matching outfits. Not because we're unaware of our dorkiness but because we're terrified of being separated due to our permanent brain damage from sleep deprivation and play-doh fumes.

My Benjamin Button is cooing in his sleep, nestling against me, and farting an essence that can only be described as outdoor summer concert porta-potty. He even has huge wrinkly balls like an elephant souvenir from the zoo. Every time I open his diaper I wonder how my breast milk turns into something that looks reminiscent of bird droppings. I love my stinky Oh-wee who screeches like an owl and makes faces like a deranged mime, he's simply beautiful to me...and very loud.