This blog is served with a heavy helping of snark, which doesn’t always translate appropriately, so I want to be very clear: my baby is very, very loved. Like, obnoxiously so. He’s for sure going to be that overconfident jerk who thinks he can do no wrong when he’s older. (Sorry about that.)

Sure, I make fun of him occasionally (a lot). Yes, I complain about my exhaustion (if you’re not going to whine about how tired you are, are you even a parent?). And yes, I call him names like “monster” and “demon baby” sometimes (okay, almost all the time…). But hey, I bought and paid-in-full for his crazy ass; you better believe I’ve earned my right to a sarcastic comment every now and then.

You see, he was a long time in the making. Over two years, to be exact.

Ah, the breast pump. A nursing mom’s best friend and worst enemy. On one hand, it gives us the option to continue breastfeeding when we go back to work, or when baby struggles with his latch, or any of the multitude of reasons that could otherwise prevent a mom from nursing. But on the other hand, it sucks (…see what I did there?). It’s uncomfortable, it’s time consuming, and it downright messes with your mind at times. Between watching the ounces creep along in the collection bottles while simultaneously watching the minutes of your life tick by in solitude, the inner monologue can be confusing, to say the least.

Do you have the next three days off work? Do you have a small child? Do you hate yourself? Then by all means… Hit the road this weekend.

I’m sure you have grand visions for this trip: showing your kid quirky landmarks, playing fun car games, singing songs together as a family… It’ll be downright idyllic!

Well go ahead and set that picture on fire because that’s a better representation of the fresh hell that awaits you on the open road.

A few months ago, a veteran dad pulled me aside to pass on some advice. “Oh, here we go,” I thought. “The ‘new mom’ sign on my forehead must be lit up, just begging for some unsolicited advice.” What I didn’t know was that he was actually about to give me the best advice I’ve gotten yet, and just in the knick of time.

Dear sweet Kitty,

You used to be my baby. My everything. My whole, fluffy, little world. I swore up and down that that would never change, even when I was pregnant. I even remember saying, “I can’t imagine ever loving anything more than this cat… I just love him so much!”

Well, Kitty, I was wrong. I still love you just as much as I always did, but damn, you’re making it difficult. I know, we brought a new little hairless cat (more commonly known as a “baby”) into your home a few months ago, but dude, you’ve gotta get on board with the new world order. Unfortunately, you’re not at the top anymore. I’m sure that’s hard for you to wrap your little head around, but tough shit.