Can I just say that going dairy-free while breastfeeding should be considered cruel and unusual punishment? If you’ve ever breastfed a baby, you know the hunger is REAL. When I’m breastfeeding, I eat like a teenage boy: constantly, abundantly, and unhealthily. All I want is sugar, snacks, and fried food. So when I found out …
Mom Life
Boy moms are our own special breed of moms. We’re forced to adapt early-on, when that first stream of pee comes shooting straight up at us. Now listen, I’m all for kicking gender stereotypes to the curb – my son can wear all the pink and purple he fancies, watch all the Disney princess movies, and play with all the dolls and “pretty things” he so pleases. But the fact is, boys are just inherently different. It’s in their DNA, and there’s no stopping it.
If infertility has taught me anything, it’s that I am not in control. Of anything. Ever. And just when I start to think I am in control, I get knocked back to down to size.
This is one of those stories.
My husband and I had been talking about maybe, sort of, possibly, looking into trying for a second baby. Our embryo storage bill was looming in the next few months, serving as a big, expensive reminder that our future babies were there, just waiting for us.
“I’m just not ready,” I kept thinking.
“But it’s time,” a voice in my head kept responding.
So, one day last week, I was just living my life, trying to take care of (aka, survive) the toddler and get through another mealtime, when something terrible happened. Something that knocked me off my feet, and that I knew would require the big guns – aka, my dad.
And because dads are awesome, he came running. That’s right, at 30 years old, with a kid of my own, I can still call my daddy when I’m in need, and he’ll still come save the day (no matter how ridiculous my request may or may not be).
I thought the trauma of the situation was behind me, but apparently, I was wrong. Unfortunately (for me), my dad is an epically good writer, and he decided to write a guest post so he could humiliate me forever – because that’s what dads do.
So with that, enjoy your laugh at my expense for the day:
When someone gives birth to a huge baby, everyone is all sympathies — “oh that poor mom” — but when someone gives birth to a tiny baby, it’s the exact opposite. The most common response I got to my 5 pound, 12 ounce pipsqueak was: “lucky you!” with a little wink. I’m not saying a …