Happy New Year?
Happy New Year.
Er, maybe not.
The first day of 2011 started out bright. Hubs fired up the grill out back (yet another reason I love the South: it was almost 60 degrees) and we had the crew over to watch college bowl games. "The crew" includes approximately 16 adults and 6 children under the age of 2, which is fun but not even remotely relaxing. I spent the better part of the morning ensuring that mommies had quiet corners for nursing, babies had pack n' plays for napping, and toddlers had sufficient supervision (after the daddies were a few beers deep).
Then it hit.
The nausea was so overwhelming and so sudden that I literally went straight to the bathroom and peed on a stick to make sure I wasn't preggo. (Some people keep a secret stash of cigarettes or candy. I keep a stash of pregnancy tests. Hey...when you gotta know, you gotta know!) Before I could even finish thanking the good Lord above that the test was negative, I was praying to a different god...of the porcelain variety. It was miserable. I was so sick that I ended up locked in my bedroom (uh, and bathroom) while Hubs took care of Little B and played host to a houseful of guests. He's a saint.
For the next 24 hours, Hubs dutifully brought Little B to me every few hours to breastfeed. But he did everything else. There were a few moments where I thought about lifting my head from the comfy pillow to ask, "How many ounces of cereal did you give him?" or "When's the last time you changed his diaper?" But I was too tired and too sick to ask. Being utterly ill silenced the control freak in me. And I'm glad for that.
When I finally emerged from the bedroom the next afternoon, bleary-eyed and tousled, I found a happy, well-fed, clean-diapered baby boy hanging out with his Daddy. They both looked up and smiled at me, and I practically melted.
Then Hubs kissed me on the cheek, tenderly put a hand on my head and said to me...
"Wow, babe. You really, really need a shower."
Er, maybe not.
The first day of 2011 started out bright. Hubs fired up the grill out back (yet another reason I love the South: it was almost 60 degrees) and we had the crew over to watch college bowl games. "The crew" includes approximately 16 adults and 6 children under the age of 2, which is fun but not even remotely relaxing. I spent the better part of the morning ensuring that mommies had quiet corners for nursing, babies had pack n' plays for napping, and toddlers had sufficient supervision (after the daddies were a few beers deep).
Then it hit.
The nausea was so overwhelming and so sudden that I literally went straight to the bathroom and peed on a stick to make sure I wasn't preggo. (Some people keep a secret stash of cigarettes or candy. I keep a stash of pregnancy tests. Hey...when you gotta know, you gotta know!) Before I could even finish thanking the good Lord above that the test was negative, I was praying to a different god...of the porcelain variety. It was miserable. I was so sick that I ended up locked in my bedroom (uh, and bathroom) while Hubs took care of Little B and played host to a houseful of guests. He's a saint.
For the next 24 hours, Hubs dutifully brought Little B to me every few hours to breastfeed. But he did everything else. There were a few moments where I thought about lifting my head from the comfy pillow to ask, "How many ounces of cereal did you give him?" or "When's the last time you changed his diaper?" But I was too tired and too sick to ask. Being utterly ill silenced the control freak in me. And I'm glad for that.
When I finally emerged from the bedroom the next afternoon, bleary-eyed and tousled, I found a happy, well-fed, clean-diapered baby boy hanging out with his Daddy. They both looked up and smiled at me, and I practically melted.
Then Hubs kissed me on the cheek, tenderly put a hand on my head and said to me...
"Wow, babe. You really, really need a shower."
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