How it All Began ...

Some dark January night ...

Here's a secret confession: At night, I turn into a Husband Eating Monster. The mere fact that my husband is not biologically programmed to lactate causes me to channel all of my exhaustion (and OK, let's face it, maybe a little uncalled-for bitchiness) toward him. So when Baby J finishes nursing (in our bed) and I'm attempting to stealthily swaddle him without him awakening, I don't take kindly to the melodramatic, half-asleep sigh, roll-over, and "IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN DO?" (out loud!) routine. Picture Baby waking up, mom barking expletives, dad sighing again and wondering why he married an HEM.

And then there's the getting back in bed scene, wherein said husband's toenails knick my leg and I lose it: HAVE YOU CUT YOUR DAMN TOENAILS IN THIS DECADE? This is all after I have snuck from our bed back into baby's bedroom, carefully eased him down into his crib, wished him sweet and LONG dreams, and then tried to exit the bedroom covertly by tip-toeing around all the squeaky parts of the floor. Usually by then I have to go the bathroom, then I get hungry and stand in the hallway pondering how bad it would be to go downstairs and eat peanut butter straight out of the jar. I know that if I do it will add to my somebody-grabbed-onto-my-ass-with-both-hands-let-go-and-it-stuck look and also wonder if the peanut proteins really do channel themselves into my breastmilk, predisposing J to a peanut allergy.

And did I mention that I could win the Ratty-Woman-of-the-Year award? I have on my Newton-Tigers blue flannel pajamas with dried spit up in my hair and down my back. I have on a LARGE nursing bra with soaked pads ...

And people wonder why I DON'T WANT TO EVER HAVE SEX AGAIN.

HINT: IT'S NOT JUST THE HORMONES PRODUCED BY BREASTFEEDING.