You know how when you get with old friends to celebrate something and weird stuff happens? Like, oh, I dunno, a wedding of a friend and your other drunk friend comes home and drinks your breast milk?

From the bottle! Come on people!

This picture shows one of my BFF’s who’s  been my friend since before “BFF” was a thing. Yeah, Sara is drinking the milk I expressed for my baby. She begged me to put this picture on Facebook. I told her drunk ass this picture would need blog explanation before hitting the judgmental eyes of everyone we’ve ever known. So of course I put it on Instagram and Twitter because that’s so much better and less judgy. ::snort::

Her reaction was, “It doesn’t really taste like anything!” You must read that quote in Sara’s voice. She has an Ellie Mae southern twang in the voice of a 4-year-old. Remember, she was hammered so be sure to read it not just high-pitched and childish, but also drunkish. I’ll write it again, “It doesn’t really taste like anything!” There, did you hear Sara say it?

I disagree with her. I think it tastes sweet and mild, exactly what a baby would want. I heard breast milk might help a hangover. She gulped it down. People’s comments were awesome! Some of them know Sara.

This led me to think of all the other times I have tasted my own breast milk. All the other times? It’s pretty much an everyday occurrence. I don’t think it’s that weird. I have to make sure it’s not spoiled or make sure something I ate doesn’t make it taste weird. Even though I’m with him all the time  now that I am staying home, I still pump at least once a day. I make a lot of milk. I freeze a lot of it. If it’s thawed, I need to make sure it tastes okay. I will admit it got a little weird one time when I was out of regular milk and I had to put breast milk in our mac and cheese. No one in my family was the wiser. It should make them wonder what other recipes my milk may end up in. Bwa ha ha ha!

So, is it weird that she tasted it? Yeah, a little. But, if there is anything that lactating made me realize, it’s that a female cow had to have a baby to produce hormones that would cause her to lactate. That’s when a farmer somewhere hooked up a pump to her to express her milk and we drink it everyday. That cow is a total stranger. Sara and I are best friends. The moral of the story? Share some of the best from your breastie with your bestie.

You know those moments when you can’t believe something so ridiculous is happening to you at that time? You know the ones. They make your face look like this:

I’ve gotten better at controlling my face in recent years. I think it was all the crazy I interviewed as a TV news reporter going on only a few hours of sleep. The crazy trained me to control my face.

Three things lately made me make this face.

1. I was rushing to get both children out of the car and into the double stroller for my workout class. If you recall, I’m really trying to properly utilize the SAHM time by making sure I’m exercising. Plus, I’m paying for it, so let’s get this booty poppin’. Anyway, I was unloading the copious amount of crap that I haul around on a daily basis when I opened the passenger side door. That’s when I heard it fall.

One of Henry’s fancy $9 bottles rolled out of the car and hit the pavement. I knew it would roll. It was like slow motion. It rolled and spun like the basketball at the end of an after school special where a young teen overcame adversity to make the winning shot for the team. It spun right into the damn sewer! Of course it had a personalized bottle band wrapped around it too. Lord forbid my kids have anything without their names on it. Charlotte was very concerned that bugs would get on his bottle, not knowing it was gone forever. I was just glad I still had milk in the pump bottles and not in the sewer bottle. I made the face.

2. I came downstairs one morning after Greyson had already been up with Charlotte. I knew we were short on groceries, but I figured he fed her. Oh, he fed her. I glanced at the plate and thought it was peanut butter and jelly on a hamburger bun. I cringed. Not an ideal breakfast, but I had not been to the store. I only had myself to blame. Turns out, I had him to blame. I asked Charlotte what she ate. “Ketchup sandwich!”

He fed her ketchup on a hamburger bun for breakfast when I knew good and well there were some eggs in the fridge.  I made the face.

3. After one of Charlotte’s extracurricular classes recently, a visiting grandparent was chatting with the instructor. This overzealous southern woman explained to the instructor that she was from a small town. She told the teacher how wonderful it is that children in our city have opportunities like this class. The kind teacher smiled and said that she was from a small town in Michigan and understood.

Let me add here that the grandmother is white and the teacher is black. I feel I need to say that to give a frame of reference for the turn the conversation then took.

The grandmother looked at the instructor and said, “I’m originally from Mississippi. You know, my daughter was born at Jefferson Davis Memorial Hospital.”

The face! The FACE! I could tell the gracious instructor was trying not to make it too. Why, oh why would this woman feel she needed to add the tidbit about the hospital named after the Confederate general?! I can only assume that is  what this woman came up with because she doesn’t see many black people. I guess that’s what she came up with instead of blurting “I’m white, you’re black!”

That face had a little more to it:

Please note that Jefferson Davis Memorial Hospital has been Natchez Regional Medical Center since 1993.

Dear Mr. Costas,

First, let me say that I have always admired you as a journalist. Your storytelling is amazing. The Sandusky phone interview, epic. A true professional. Thanks for all the years of sports history. I also love hearing your voice in “Cars.” I think I speak for all parents of preschoolers when we tell you we’ve seen that movie no less than 900 times, so thank you for the subtle adult pop culture references to keep us entertained.

Getting down to business. Congrats on your viral hastag, #SaveBobCostasEye. Sorry about that other viral or bacterial thing you have going on. You know, the eye.  The concensus on Twitter has been that you washed your face with the yellow Russian water despite numerous warnings taped around Sochi hotels. You called it a “minor infection.” It stinks that you have to wear your glasses on air, but it is awesome that you charmingly compared yourself to “Peabody and Sherman.” That’s why we love you, Bob.

I have a suggestion on how to cure it. It’s gross, but hear me out. Don’t worry, I have a Bachelor’s degree from a liberal arts state university, so you can feel comfortable taking medical advice from me.

New Year’s Day I woke up with goopy mucous oozing from my itchy red eye. Unlike you, I don’t have the fine doctors provided by NBC Universal that you have with you in Sochi. Where was I going to get prescription drops for pink eye on a holiday?! I wasn’t. So I took drastic measures. I had drops available. Where, you ask?

Wait for it.

Bear with me.

I used my breast milk.

In my eye.

I know. It sounds repulsive. But breast milk is sterile and has antibiotic properties. The stuff is amazing! It cured it that day. Seriously. Gone. No, I did not squirt it in my eye. Come on, Bob that’s crazy. I dabbed some on my finger from the bottle and dropped it in.

Now I have found numerous uses for it including: baby Eczema, baby stuffy nose, cradle cap, dry skin, dry contact lenses and canker sores.

Oh, wait! That’s right. You are likely not lactating. Hmm. That spoils my plan for you. Again, I’m not a doctor but I wouldn’t recommend using someone else’s breast milk. That would just be weird. About as weird as some woman writing a blog post in the form of a letter to you about curing pink eye with breast milk.

So, sorry Bob. We will all just have to deal with your weepy red eye a few days longer. I blame Putin for somehow infecting those baby blues with his crazy. Keep up the good work! Happy Olympics!

Sincerely,

Amy

P.S. Go Team USA!

We all know you can order a Butterbeer Latte at Starbucks thanks to the Internet prowess of my sweet friend Diana. We all know life is never as good as it is when Starbucks brings back the PSL in the fall before debuting that season’s holiday offerings in those happy red cups. I could live on Gingerbread Lattes in December.

This year I have been extra tired thanks to my newborn and extra thirsty since he is a voracious eater. Making enough milk to keep up with him means I miss nary a meal nor snack and drink water like a marathoner in the desert. My order of the season has been a Gingerbread Latte and a grande ice water. If I’m being honest, it’s been my order like, everyday. Wanna hang out while I’m on maternity leave? Sure. Meet me at the Starbucks. Pick one. I bet my baby has been there sometime during his five weeks on earth.

One day this week I had polished off a latte after dropping my preschooler off at her school. I went home before another outing to get ready. I was pumping breast milk in the bathroom while fixing my hair. The joy of going somewhere that was not preschool or Starbucks meant I was fixing my hair, dammit! I listened to Christmas music on my phone as the breast pump’s rhythmic sucking seemed to be on beat with Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You.”

I looked in the mirror and noticed the bottle attached to my right breast was getting very full, very fast. No surprise. My right cup runneth over quite frequently. Usually at this point I would stop and empty a little of the milk from the right into the bottle on the left. “Old Lefty” is a slow-flow. Surprisingly, the left was keeping up with the right with every fluid ounce. I had no other bottles upstairs with me. I looked around the bathroom for any appropriate receptacle for breast milk.

I spotted my grande ice water on the counter. Well, it was just water. It would have to do. I poured in the milk and kept pumping. I chuckled at the thought of what the barista would think of this.

Later that day my observant little preschooler was “nursing” her baby doll. She looked at me and said, “My baby gets chocolate milk from my breast! I get chocolate milk at Starbucks!”

It’s only been three years. I tried to jog my memory and remember all of the nitty gritty I had forgotten about postpartum life and having a newborn. Our son arrived a week and two days ago and there are some notable similarities and differences from Baby #1 to Baby #2.

Ouch!– I had to describe to my first-time pregnant friend what it was like physically after giving birth. I was honest. “It’s like a crime scene down there.” I felt bad. I thought she was going to cry. Well, she should know. I wish I had.

Once again, I am wrecked yo.  But, it healed up up quick last time. I was good as new. I fully expect the same this time. Fortunately, I was aware that it would take 10 minutes to go to the bathroom every time these first couple of weeks, so I was ready. Allow for bathroom time, new mothers! You’re welcome.

I’ve been thankful for Dermaplast and perineal ice packs. Greyson even made a run to the specialty pharmacy to get more of the cold pads for me. I figured out why they only give you so many at the hospital. They are $4.00 a piece! The thing is, I would have paid more. You ladies understand.

I remember some after pains or cramping when nursing after Baby #1 was born. Oh my God! This time?! Insane! It felt like contractions again. Seriously. It died down after a couple of days, but good Lord! That’s when the nurse and my mom informed me, “Oh yeah, it’s much worse with subsequent babies.” Good to know. Take note, second-timers.

The Hospital and Recorded Feedings– With Baby #1, Greyson and I hung on to the doctors and nurses’ every words. We dutifully filled out their feeding chart with time and duration of each nursing session. We kept track of each bit of meconium and consulted the lactation consultant a ridiculous four times. We both loved our nurses and thanked them a hundred times. We looked at each other and thought, “Oh my God! They’re letting us leave here with an infant. What the hell are they thinking?”

This time we didn’t write down jack. I humored one nurse, by making up some numbers. I could just tell her feeding times. I refused to write them down and continue this ritual for two weeks! With Baby #1 for two weeks I went insane recording every feeding and poop in a cute little notebook. I set the timer on the old iPhone 3GS and recorded each one. Really?! No. Not this time. Granted, I enjoyed the little notes I wrote at the end of each day about my newborn daughter’s early days, but I think it made me go a little crazy to keep those types of records. I think some Type A, detail oriented mothers would love that, but it caused me too much anxiety. Sorry. Let’s just feed the kid and move on with life. So far so good with  Baby #2. I’m just feeding him while checking Twitter on my iPhone 5 this time.

We were generally annoyed and really ready to get out of the hospital, frankly. I think every baby in the county decided to be born the same day as our son. The staff seemed busy and frazzled. Paying a higher copay than last time didn’t help our moods. We were just generally irritated by the end of our hospital stay. We enjoyed all our sweet visitors, but it was time to go!

Snip- We didn’t know if this baby was a boy or a girl, so when we saw his kibbles and bits, we had to make a decision. A circumcision decision. I wanted to make sure I understood the pros and cons of circumcision and types of circumcisions. There are different kinds. Who knew? We didn’t. Baby #1 was a girl. How would we know?

I did some research on my phone and had extensive Twitter DM conversations with some of my boy mom blogger friends. I won’t tell you what we decided because that would be discussing my son’s genitals on the Internet. Poor kid. It’s bad enough his shameless mother discusses hers.

Milk and Weight Gain– The dairy is open for business, ya’ll! This kid came out an eater. In the delivery room he was rooting around and ready to go. The milk came in faster this time. Thank God. Colostrum wasn’t cutting it. This baby wanted milk. He was born 8 lbs. 2 oz. and left the hospital 7 lbs. 13 oz. He stayed 7 lbs. 13 oz. at his two day appointment.

I am not making this up. In five days the child was up to 8 lbs. 10 oz.! The doctor had to look at the chart twice. She thought it was a typo. I’m proud of my boobs. Not gonna lie.