My boobs are my own again! Rejoice with me. And take this moment to mentally note that you owe your mother a whole hell of a lot of nice Salt Water Taffy for giving you the benefit of breastmilk because let me tell you, it is not pretty nor non-labor-intensive to do so. But alas, I've made it a year, well almost, 11 months and that's close enough for me (except when it's a measurement of days past your 4th Anniversary that your husband hasn't gotten you a gift, and then a month's leeway is absof-inglutely not acceptable). I digress.
In other news, and to link two bits of otherwise unrelated information: 1.) It's Shark Week and 2.) My baby is about to turn 1 year old on Sunday. Now, these two seemingly unrelated events are in fact, quite related. To quantify how rediculously insane female reproductive hormones are, and how debilitating they can be to 51% of our population, I must expain about my emotions and feelings and "issues" with having my baby turn 1. I have found sentimental and/or emotionally devastating all things that I come in contact with lately. Exhibit: Shark Week.
Last weekend we threw a little Pre-1st Birthday party in Riverside Park for the big man and on our way down there, I noticed the billboard sporting the "Shark Week is Coming!" advertisement (that coincidentally was the same billboard that said it last year too - quirky this little City we have here), and completely had a full on hyperventilatory break down. ........ What the mother loving h*ll. So I smacked my own face several times and asked it, "why are you nostalgic about Shark Week?" And my face said, "because, you heartless cow, my baby was born just after Shark Week last year!" And then I said, "you're right! And I am a heartless cow. Now let's both cry and if Grant asks what's the matter let's yell at him, ok?"