Comfort food

Disclaimer:  The following is in no way fuel for the breast v. bottle argument…which isn’t usually perpetuated by Mamas anyway.Blog- squash-soup_4

I’ve always been a big fan of the comfort food.  I’ve been snuggled by my mom’s chicken soup, commiserated with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, and loved by a gooey grilled cheese. But until I became a mama, I never knew the power of the ultimate comfort food.  Breastmilk.

Uh oh, Peanut’s cranky from a long day at daycare?  Kiss, kiss, boob.

Boom.  Happy baby.

Can’t fall asleep?  Kiss, kiss, boob.

Boom. Sleepy baby.

Got a cold?  Ear infection?  Cutting a tooth?  kiss, kiss, boob, boob, boob.

Boom.  Happy baby.

Calms her dad pretty well too.


Well, stick my head in a laundry basket

imageJust your good old-fashioned Mama-driven sleep deprivation around here, with a side of sick dog, work stress and Zika. Here’s a sampling from my week with this addled brain in cause and effect form.


Wake up thirsty at 1:30am. Roll over, take a sip of water.  Bam. Awake like crazy.

Spend the hours between 2:30 and 4:30 alternating among checking flights for my friend’s upcoming Cancun wedding, googling the risks of Zika and getting pregnant, and wondering how to keep everyone happy with my decision to go or cancel – husband, friend, future babies, and of course, the village (cause you know the village is all up in our grills when we’re pregnant or trying).

And, Effect:

Drop off at daycare. Pull into the parking lot and hop out the front seat.  Open the back door to take out my kid.  Smile sweetly at her.  She smiles back. Starts rolling away from me. Dash to the front, pull the emergency brake, breathe.

Manage to save a student’s favorite sweatshirt from the lost and found. Triumphantly present it to her.  She explains hers is at home in the laundry.  In effect, I have stolen a kid’s sweatshirt.

Minutes after leaving work, text my colleague to apologize for forgetting to give her the thank you card I owe her.  She texts back.  I gave it to her. 

Pick up time at daycare.  Grab the kid, walk down the long hall and out the front door. Realize I have the wrong kid.  Kidding.  Have the right kid. But also have the blue puffy keep-the-floor-clean booties still attached to my feet.  Chuckles all around from the daycare ladies. 

As if stress weren’t enough, even the drama from sleep deprivation is exhausting. Might just take a page from my kid’s book and stick my head in the laundry basket.