Hit Me Baby One More Time

8 months ago, I was selected to be featured on a local spa’s website for the launch of their pregnancy and motherhood blog, and while I enjoyed the experience immensely, I decided to take a brief hiatus once my stint with them was up. Fast forward to the present day, I now find myself on bed rest looking for a relaxing way to pass the time, and I figured, what better way to keep busy than to strike fear into the pregnant masses with tales of my parenting woes? So friends, forgive me in advance for the confessions to come, because I am back for round two of my reign of terror.

In bringing you up to speed on the particulars of today, I’d be remiss if I didn’t do a brief recap of the time since I last wrote, as the months from two to ten were chock full of fun-filled events. Like the time I lost my hair. They don’t tell you this during pregnancy, but that luxurious, full head of hair that you’re retaining? You’re going to lose it. And then some. One day, I woke up to find that my hairline had receded. In multiple different places. It was horrifying. During a time when LeBron had abandoned me and taken on the role of sworn enemy, we had suddenly become kindred spirits. I had genuine apprehension over the day I would look in the mirror and see Britney Spears looking back at me. And not Hit Me Baby One More Time Britney. Post K-Fed, 2007, in-the-midst-of-a-breakdown-and-bald Britney. I stopped listening to her music. I didn’t want to tempt fate. In any event, I’d tell you not to worry, because the hair will grow back. And it will. But not before you hit an incredibly awkward phase wherein it looks like your tiny baby hairs are desperately trying to run away from the top of your head. Seriously, there are days where I wake up and genuinely wonder if I somehow managed to sleepwalk straight into an electric socket. It’s beautiful.

And the breastfeeding. Glorious breastfeeding. Don’t get me wrong, it was a great overall experience, and I was sad when I was forced to transition to formula, but that sh*t is no walk in the park. We had driven up to Atlanta for Thanksgiving when I walked straight into a frozen tundra. It was so cold that you could not convince me that we hadn’t taken a wrong turn and driven straight through to Antarctica. It was frigid. So when we went out to dinner with friends and it was time to breastfeed Brooke, I took her out to the car like I normally would in sunny Florida. Only it wasn’t sunny. And it wasn’t Florida. Brooke didn’t mind, since I’m pretty sure that my milk was able to morph into ice cream in the time it took to go from nipple to mouth. I, on the other hand, was less than enthused. I also had some sort of infection at the time that caused my nipple to blow up into a fancy little engorged balloon. So there I sat, icicles forming on my swollen nipples, when a homeless person walked by and gave me a thumbs up. I love making new friends.

And one cannot discuss the joys of the first year of parenthood without making reference to the wonderful act of teething. That’s when my baby went from a sweet, innocent child to a ravenous cannibal. No body part was safe. In fact, I’m quite sure that she thought that my thumb was one of those miniature corn on the cobs that you find in fancy salads. But not to worry, I’m told that the skin will eventually grow back.

Otherwise, it’s been an extremely magical time. Each milestone is more exciting than the last, and I swear I died the first time she leaned in for an actual kiss. Physically, the healing process went rather smoothly after the c-section, outside of the awkward period of time where my stomach decided to form a neat little ledge above my incision; though I think that was just Jesus giving me a convenient place for our Elf on the Shelf. Either way, it eventually disappeared, just in time for me to get knocked up again. And that’s where I find myself today.

Because, honestly, who wouldn’t read my blog posts and think, “You know what would be fun? To do this all over again!”?