Getting My Boobs Back

I have officially finished nursing Olivia.  And although I've been wanting this day to come for 8 months now, I have to admit that I'm a little bit saddened by it.  Now you're probably recalling this post, where I'm just dying for some bras that don't have fold-down cups, and I'm still looking forward to going out and finding me some of those.  (I've got $50 of Kohl's Cash burning a hole in my wallet)  But before I begin calling out "Free at last, free at last!  Thank God Almighty, I'm free at last!" through the streets of our apartment complex, I just need a short moment to pay tribute to the fact that I nursed one of my twin babies for 12 months while managing to raise three young children.

The reasons I'm sad about the end of Olivia's breastfeeding days are mostly obvious ones:

Comforting a baby is good for the soul.  At least it is for mine.  Selfishly, I liked that I was the only one who could comfort her.  At times I'd complain, but deep down I crave that feeling of being needed.  Don't we all? 

Nursing is a bonding experience.  I feel a very close bond with all of my children, but there is something unique, special, and sacred about the bond between a mom and a nursing baby.  As she got older, that bond got stronger, and I can see why some moms can't let go of this connection, continuing nursing well beyond the first year.

The end of an era.  My husband and I may be done having children.  There are many reasons why, and we feel very complete with the three that we have.  We haven't ruled out the possibility of another child completely, but we're both fairly sure this is it.  So the thought that when I nursed Olivia for the last time on Tuesday night may be the last time I ever breastfeed a sleepy baby makes me super sad.  Sure, there are days when I'm wishing my children were able to put on their own shoes, walk into a store, take themselves to the bathroom, do just about anything for themselves...  But most of the time I'm relishing in their babyhood.  Completing the nursing-baby phase of my life is just another indication that they are getting older, and accepting that fact is often hard on any mom.  Especially this one.

Whew, I feel much better.  I'm glad I got that all off my chest.  (get it?  off my chest... haha!) Now I can rejoice in the fact that I can go out for an extended period of time, wear normal undergarments, and not have to lift my shirt in public places.  (unless, of course, I want to.)

Here's a picture of Olivia enjoying her new morning ritual, a bottle of chocolate (Ovaltine) milk:

Best Buds

Joey and Katelyn are quickly becoming fast friends. He loves that Katelyn tries to keep up with him, chasing him around the apartment, hiding under blankets in fits of giggles, and causing mass destruction just for the heck of it. Katelyn really enjoys the extra attention from her big brother and has a monkey-see, monkey-do attitude. I have a feeling in a few short months Joey will be yelling, "JUMP!" and Katelyn's response will be, "how high?" I'm trying to prepare myself for 2 potential trouble-makers that could get into some seriously troubling situations together over the next 15-20 years.

At the end of the hallway we have a gate that stops the children from venturing into the bathroom and 2 kids bedrooms. When the kids are awake and playing I usually have the gate up, not because they can't play in their rooms, I'm just trying to contain the mess. If we spend the morning at home, (as we did today) Joey usually requests to go play in his room at some point. (He does not actually go in there to play, he grabs all of the binkies and blankies that he can find in his and Katelyn's beds and lays on the floor, but that is a blog post for a different day...) This is usually OK with me, as it breaks up the monotiny and gives the babies a chance to play without their competing-for-attention brother all up in their business.

Today, once he had is fill of comfort time, Joey returned to the opposite side of the gate and called out for Katelyn and "EEE-ah." Then he proceeded to run from one end of the hallway to the other just to get a good laugh of encouragement from his sisters. He somersaulted, danced, spun in circles, and acted like a wild animal while they stood at the gate in fits of giggles. After several minutes of this, Olivia moved on to something else while Katelyn continued egging on her brother. The two of them then shook the gate until it collapsed to the floor, I heard a suspicious, "Come on, Katelyn," and within seconds they had tossed all of the diapers within reach from the changing table around the babies' room, and they were about to move on to the bookcase. The part that makes me nervous is that seeing me did not phase them. They just worked faster and laughed louder. Cute, right?

Not so much.

Sure, it's cute to picture these two young children chasing each other around a baby-proofed apartment pulling things off of shelves just to make more work for their mother. But someday it will be more severe infractions. I'm having visions of phone calls from the school principal to tell me that Joey and Katelyn started a food fight in the cafeteria. And what will I say. Probably something like, "yea, I saw that one coming when they were 1 and 2 year olds."

Will Olivia join in on this "lets get into as much trouble as we can" bandwagon? Maybe. Right now she enjoys watching from a protected place (like the high chair or my hip) but I wouldn't put it past her to get involved. When and if that day comes I will be running away. Fast.

A New Winner

You've all heard the expression, "you snooze, you lose." Well, Wolvie72 is still snoozing, but the show must go own. I've selected another winner for the Small Utility Tote via Random.org. The new winner is post #84, Karen, who said, "I would take this to the beach." Well, get your bathing suit and sunscreen ready, Karen... thanks for entering and congratulations! I'll be in touch so we can get your prize out ASAP!

Kissing Katie

I must warn you... I didn't realize that someone (probably Joey) messed with the settings on my video camera so the quality of this video (and all the other ones taken in the last 1-2 months) is extraordinarily crappy. But this one of Katelyn making kisses is just too cute not to share!

Grown Men Should Not Play Recreational Sports

The above statement is something that I think to myself every time my husband enrolls himself in some kind of  "rec." sport.  I stand by this statement because I know at some point during the "season" my husband will be injured.  This injury will affect our daily routine immensely but will not, however, stop him from continuing to play said sport.  The injury will worsen, his groaning will intensify, and my patience will wear thinner than ever.

So it is no surprise that my last words to my husband as he exited the apartment on the way to his game last night were not "good luck," or even "I love you."  With every game or practice, the final words I called out to him on his way out the door are always, "don't get hurt."  If only he'd listened last night, he wouldn't look like this tonight:

The problem is not the sport itself.  It isn't the individual men either.  It's the mis-firing of electrical current that occurs in a man's brain when he is surrounded by other guys and his wife is not around.  For some reason when you get a group of men together to play a sport that they think they are good at, they think it's important to show off.  In other words, my husband thinks it is necessary to physically push the limitations of his rapidly aging body to impress the other men on the team.  Some call this an Ego.  I call it Stupid.

Too harsh?  Maybe.  Don't get me wrong.  I found this softball team for my husband to join.  I picked out his new glove and cleats.  I understand and completely support my husband's need for male companionship.  Just as he understands and completely supports my need to drink wine every day.  But I am frustrated by the fact that he couldn't follow one simple direction: don't get hurt.  So tonight as I bring my husband more Ibuprofen and a heating pad, I can't help but think to myself that grown men should not play recreational sports.  At least not without the supervision and guidance of their wives.