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!”

Hello! Are you my male co-worker, father, father-in-law, boy cousin, one of my girlfriends’ husbands, stepdad or grandfather? (Of course you’re not my grandfather. Neither grandfather knows what a blog is nor how to use the Internet.) If you are any others on that list, take a hint and stop reading. Seriously, shoo! Here you go. Not to insult you, but I hear you guys like this. Read it. Go on! You’ve been warned.

Okay, are we all clear?  Good.

Ya’ll, I’m already a lactation sensation at 26 weeks pregnant! I’m not even kidding you. It’s been going on for a few weeks now. Tiny drops here and there. Tonight breast milk came out for real when I squeezed to express a little. I was just curious in the shower as I’ve been feeling it on and off.

I explained to my breastfeeding coworker that I seriously can not see her walking down the hall with her pump without getting that old familiar feeling. I told my mom how itchy and “let downish” I often feel. I was baffled by this as this was NOT the case during my first pregnancy. I wondered if it was just because I know what the feeling is this time?

Regardless it’s bizarre. With my first baby I didn’t see a drop until the nurse in the delivery room explained how to express a little to nurse my baby for the first time. I think my exact words were, “Well, I’ll be damned, there’s milk in there!” I saw the tiny drops of colostrum form and was truly amazed that my body had decided to make food for another human.

Confession. Don’t laugh. I had no idea nipples have lots of little holes. I thought it was just one hole like a cow. Then I thought, “Oh, my God! Do cows have lots of little holes on their nipples, or just one?!” If you are an expert in bovine veterinary medicine, feel free to drop some knowledge on me. Oh, and if you’re like me and didn’t know what colostrum is, skip a step and click here. You’re welcome.

I was thinking about how unbelievably blind I was going into breastfeeding the first time. I knew pretty much nothing and suddenly became a milk making machine. I did what I was told could never be done. I was a full-time working mother who exclusively breastfed for an entire year. I credit this to two things:

1. I didn’t cheap out on the breast pump and got a good one. (My pump was great. I’ve already told my sister to get the even better one than I did.)
2. I just got really freakin’ lucky. I mean, really lucky. (I made a lot of milk and my kid took to it really well.)

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s showing up so early, but it just made things really real, you know? I know I’m pregnant and I know we’re having another baby, but honestly, I haven’t done much to prepare for this child. Granted, with my first pregnancy I started a blog, dove into message board groups, did copious amounts of stroller research, found the safest non-toxic nursery paint and registered for everything everyone told me I would ever need, ever.

For this baby…uh. Well…we have an empty room with a closet full of infant equipment handed down from his/her big sister.

Those little drops on my boob made me realize I do have a few things I want to accomplish before I bust out the old pump again. ::sigh:: Okay, Baby 2.0. You’ve made it known with your kicks and milk that you are on your way. I promise to be ready for you. Clearly I’ll be ready to greet you with a drink. Cheers!