GACK! Or, Cleavage At The Pediatrician's Office

So... I am trying to find a way to blame my latest embarrassing moment on this morning's lack of CONSTRUCTIVE advice about how to deal with my post-baby wardrobe. I really did have to have my picture taken (too horrifying for words) for a billboard this afternoon. And I was really tearing apart all of my clothes to find something that could withstand being approximately three times life size in full-length glory (Trust this woman to sell your house! She looks sturdy!).

But... after tearing apart my closet and dresser and before the photo shoot (work it, farmgirl, work it!) I had to take Sarah to the doctor. Picture me, if you will, in full makeup, big ol' 1980s hair (because I'm retro cool like that and have natural frizz) and even with earrings on for crying out loud. Then picture the black maternity dress with the vee neckline meant to detract from a baby belly but in my current case only emphasizing the "girls." It was actually the best I could do. So I decided to go with it and threw in a pair of high-heeled black leather knee-high boots. (You can stop picturing me now if it's too painful for your imagination.) The boots added height and covered up the nylons, you see. And when you're four inches taller you're allowed to weigh more.

Now I have known our family doctor for just short of my whole life. I used to babysit his children. My best friend in high school was his oldest daughter. We know him so well that when I was experiencing postpartum depression, he was the last person I could tell. When we have suffered miscarriages, I don't tell him at all because I don't want him to get sad along with us. In short, I always want him to see only the good, fun side of us. The wholesome, cute family side. We talk about equestrian teams and gardening. He tells me how the kids are doing in college, how my friend is doing in her fabulous job as a children's librarian in California.

So of course I show up at his office tarted up for a photo shoot, packing a 4-month old on my hip, dragging a 4-year-old by one arm and simultaneously wiping her gross snotty nose, explaining in my most reasonable voice to the 7-year-old how to do a clean-catch urine sample. (Ease up on the bubbles in the bath and avoid the reason for our doctor visit du jour.)

Note: Usually when we have to make a trip to the doctor's office, I am in overalls or jeans ("What Not To Wear" would have a field day with me). It goes with the cute farm family theme and is entirely practical because there are a lot of pockets to stash pacifiers and such. I didn't even think about my weird portrait appointment attire after the four-hour panic attack that led to choosing the outfit. I certainly didn't think about it as we got our diagnosis. But I did notice that Dr. X was really busy today, without his usual time for chatting.

I did think about it as we got in the Suburban to rush to the real estate office, right after Sarah said to me, "Hey, Mommy, when you hold the baby like that, everyone can see your pretty bra."

A Different Kind of Bottle

Can I electrocute myself if I am pumping milk -- you know what I'm talking about -- and keyboarding at the same time? Can I cause permanent hickey damage if I get so engrossed in reading that I leave the pump on too long? Basically what I want to know is whether there is a limit I should be placing on the multitasking?

Tomorrow I am going to leave Laura for the first time ever. She will be four months old on the 15th and I am worried because I don't feel even a little bit guilty. I have lost the mommy guilt. Maybe it's in my messy bedroom. And before you get all excited, you should know: there will be no pictures forthcoming. I have learned my lesson. I will never again air my literal dirty laundry (in pictures anyway). So that was fun while it lasted. But I can't get a new post up quickly enough, now can I?

So Laura and Grace are going to a babysitter tomorrow. I am happy to be a SAHM (and almost as happy that I am only five to 10 years behind in jargon and therefore I know what SAHM means). Yeah, I'm happy to stay home... but I'm ECSTATIC to go out by myself tomorrow morning. Holy quietude, I will be alone in the Suburban. I don't even care that it's meant to be about real estate (a miracle happened and an offer came in on one of my listings) and engineering (I have to place ads for drafters for the EGE's company) and groceries (yeah, we're out of food again).

I can play something other than Toddler Time on my stereo! I can roll the windows down or up or halfway in between. I can stop for Dutch Brothers without buying any "not so hot" chocolates! Oh, happy day.

Now I've pumped two bottles full. She should be fine. I'll let you know whether the guilt is ever recovered... for now I am so looking forward to my day out.

If You Are Not My Girlfriend

...If you are not my cyber or corporeal girlfriend, click away while you still can.

The baby has an ear infection. I am relieved that it is only an ear infection, because she had a strange cough and a little fever and I called the nurse like a weenie, I mean first-time mom, and asked whether I should worry.

You know you never should do that. You should either worry or just drive in to the doctor already, because the nurse will look at your chart and say, "holy birth control, the woman has four kids, if she's calling, she needs to come in."

So then you will drive like a maniac to get to town on time for the doctor who will make you wait 20 to 1200 minutes. Then the baby will want to nurse right when you're supposed to be stripping her nakie for the cold cruel scale.

Then you'll find out it's an ear infection and -- even worse -- that they don't give antibiotics anymore for ear infections, that's just so outdated now, it's better to let it run its course. Of course.

Then your left boobie will explode with the pressure because the baby can't nurse on that side because it hurts her.

You can't say I didn't warn you it would get ugly. Thanks for reading.