dear club mom readers

Welcome.

How are you? Good? Stuck to your screen in eager anticipation of the next installement?

It's very nice to see you all, and I do hope you're enjoying the show.

I'm pretty darned stoked that the lovely tiffany thought I was entertaining enough to mention me to the lovely (and famous!) Amy who then, god help me, thought me entertaining enough to mention this place to the whole freakin' blogosphere! Thank you both and I think you should know that while I've not yet done so, I can't promise that I won't actually faint from the excitement of being famous myself. For a day! Or two!

YES!!!!

Ahem.

My little boy is sicksicksick today so we're stuck at home (thank you SO much wicked evil upper respiratory tract infection and your associated nasty ass fevers) and he's stuck to me, so there's not much else I can do apart from hover over my stats, be impressed, and say things like "woohoo", "yay" and "wahooey" (me), and *cough*, *hack* and *wheeze* (him).

Actually Daniel is in my lap right now so I'm one finger typing which disturbingly, enables me to write full paragraphs in less time than it takes to write them in my usual splattertygoop fashion. The latter requires backspacing, deleting and retyping pretty much every. single. word so if I didn't do the delete thing, I'd be illegible, yes, but very, very prolific and would have typed a novel in the time it's taken me to write this entry.

You all have a great day, and thank you again for taking the time out to pop on over and visit.

xx

ps I LOVE COMMENTS!!

PPS Oh I'm sorry, did I say that out loud? *whistles innocently*

I hate assholes

Alternative title, careful aibee, you're letting your perfectionist tendencies colour your view of these good people.

Guff. Aw,

Also, I said "ass" hole. Ha ha ha ha HA.

So yes. As I've mentioned before, I'm selling off shit on ebay. I am, if I do say so myself, a fucking awesome ebayer. If I win an auction, I pay for the item that very same day, and when I sell, I pride myself on being the kind of seller that makes my own buyer's heart sing. People, I'm the kind of ebay trader that communicates the living shit out of an auction, sending a minimum of three emails when one of mine ends (in order: thanks for bidding here's your invoice, got your payment will be sending your item today, and finally, have sent your item thanks again), I package items for free and then I find the cheapest possible postage options, I charge no handling fees whatsoever, and I go to great lengths to ensure the parcel is sent the very same day that payment is received. Oh I'm sorry, didn't I say that loudly enough? I send parcels THE SAME FUCKING DAY, so it annoys the crap out of me that I don't have a perfect score on my Detail Seller Ratings, not because I've faltered in my anal retentive compulsion to give my buyers the perfect auction experience, BECAUSE I HAVEN'T, but because those dipshits have some kind of delusional compulsion to complain, no matter what the fuck.

It is with this in mind that I present to you The Ebay Hall Of Shame. Theirs, not mine. Pricks.

4.8 out of a possible 5.0 for Item as described. While it irks me, I can live with it because I (grudgingly) guess that's perceptual. I do go to great lengths to describe every. Fucking. Detail. of whatever is on auction though. In fact, I practically write a motherfucking essay, fercrisake, so shouldn't the efforts I go to for those morons to u.n.d.e.r.s.t.a.n.d. exactly what they're bidding on count for something? Like, for .02?

4.9 out of 5.0 for Communication? Give me a break. That's not perceptual, that's bullshit! And probably a rating from the kind of twerp that doesn't communicate at all.

4.9 out of 5.0 for Postage time. The fuck?! Which part of "Hey! I posted your parcel today . You know, the SAME fucking day your payment came through" (except with a silent "fucking") did that -0.1 peckerhead miss anyway? If homeboy has some kind of primal urge to deduct 0.1, deduct it from Australia Post. Or here's an idea, take that 0.1 and shove it up yer mailbox.

And finally:

4.7 out of 5.0 for Postage and handling charges. 4.7?! You have GOT to be kidding me.

I do have a 100% feedback rating but that can bite me. It means shit when I've got to deal with the idiotic opinions of fools and their inability to click on the button that says I AM as awesome as that when giving their Detailed Seller Ratings. Things will be closer to even when those ratings identify the asshat leaving them, and when I can rate those wads on their ability to, firstly, pay in good time and communicate, for fucksake, and secondly, follow the damn guidelines in the first place, rate me accordingly and give me my frikkin' FULLY INTACT gold stars.


In keeping with the Fucking Ebay theme, you know what else gets my skivvies in a bunch? Stupid ass questions. Today some goose asked me if the bla bla bla and the bla bla bla I was selling were size 10 women's or girls'. Women's, you idiot, and for future reference when a trader lists an item in the women's section and
also provides detailed measurement of the item that equate to a fuckload bigger than your teensy weensie little ten year old, then chances are that item is correctly located for sale so quit jamming up the internet. Geesh. I also LOVE the ones that say "what size is it?". What size? Gee, I guess it'd be a size 10, considering it's listed there. Don't trust that I listed it in the correct section? Then I guess the detailed measurements with the suitable size suggestions count for shit too then.

Also, how annoying is it to get a question about an item that goes something like this: send me a photo of the tag.

Well hi to you too, sunshine!

So the answer is: Very.

Contrary to the mouthful of filth you witness here on a regular basis, I really am the queen of polite. I'm the epitome of the manners you'd like to see in the guy you bring home to meet your parents, so when some turdhole doesn't even bother to say hello, much less please or thank you, I about lose oxygen to my peripherals. Oh, I know I shouldn't let the actions of others determine how I feel, but fuckit. I like rolling my eyes. It's a free headspin in my otherwise mundane, drug free life.

As an aside and speaking of drugs, after having popped a few Sudafed the last time I had a cold, I find myself eagerly anticipating the next one. Please see above reference to "Life=Mundane".

the baby thing

While I was pregnant, the idea of having more than the one child I couldn't believe I already had (what?) never crossed my mind. As my new son was handed to me though, right smack bang on the tail of The Lightening Bolt of Love that came with him, was the absolute knowing that while this purple faced, screaming infant was my entire universe, I wanted more. Kind of like, in keeping with the universe theme, how it reaches to infinity but is growing. Into what? I ask, and in much the same way I ask, what kind of bullshit analogy am I trying to use anyway.

Point being! Daniel means the world to me and he is absolutely enough, and wanting more children doesn't make him any less so of those things, but I do want more children. Or more to the point, I want to know I tried.

It echoes why I set about doing IVF Daniel's lifetime ago. Back then, I wasn't yet aching for a baby and back then, I also didn't actually think I'd get pregnant. In fact, I knew I'd always be childless (Ha HA). Mostly I was doing it because I didn't want to regret never having tried. I didn't want to regret throwing so much of my life away, first with anorexia and then with someone I grew to realise I didn't want to spend the rest of my life with.


So yes, I'd had Daniel and I'd barely come back from theatre before I started making plans for my next production, and I'd been home a week when I contacted my reproductive endocrinologist's rooms to make the appointment.

I figured that at the very least, I'd get that husky voiced, gin soaked fallopian tube fixed. At my age though, even if I wanted to, I don't have time to get that bitch fixed, then find someone to fall in love with before trying to get knocked up the good old fashioned way, so when my appointment arrived, I went along hoping against hope that I still qualified as being medically infertile, despite the three month old in my arms suggesting otherwise.

Time for revisiting the legal educational: if we forget about ol' crusty, I'm also what's known as socially infertile, which in my case means that I've got no partner to knock me up. Legislation doesn't allow fertility treatment for someone living the sex life of a cloistered nun (hello!), or who is getting down with someone with boobs and without a block and tackle in her pants. However! On the list of qualifying questions, the one asking "are you medically infertile?" comes before the one asking you're socially so. Check that first box and *bam* it's as if the second doesn't exist. To put it in real terms, a lesbian couple with no medical reason causing their infertility wouldn't qualify for any reproductive help, while a lesbian couple with one or both women having medical reasons why they can't get pregnant, would. In summary then, treatment isn't available to anyone who walks in wanting medical intervention to get knocked up. You have to need it.

So yes, based on appearance only, having Daniel was an obstacle to my desire to shoot up drugs that would make me ovulate like a sow.

Which is why I followed the endocrinologist, not the practice.

*taps forehead*

Smart. See?

The last practice was privately owned and beautifully appointed, this new one is situated in a public hospital and at mealtimes, smells of reheated food and congealed gravy. Private or public though, our government still subsidises the treatment, and because I'm subsidised finacially, there's not much difference between the out-of-pocket expenses after Medicare costs are met. Choosing a clinic then is really just a matter of which decor and aromas you prefer.

I prefer neither but I do prefer my doctor. He was a real brick before and he totally was this time too. The last time he'd seen him, Daniel was a blobby thing with nubs for arms and legs, so he was particularly chuffed to see him now, all chubby and round and complete. I told him that I want a family not just for me, but for Daniel too. I'm all he has and more to the point, he's all I have - and that's a big responsibility for not just a little boy, but for a grown man he will be too, the one trying to make a life for himself without worrying what's going to happen to his poor old ma. I told him too that when I was growing up all I wanted to do was get married and have a big, ol' family, the cat and the dog and the white picket fence. I told him that I still wanted that dream but that I don't have the luxury of achieving it in that order.

Marc took my case to the ethics committee who predictably wondered why I didn't wait to get pregnant the old fashioned way. Firstly and obviously, unless I start to channel Mother Mary some time soon, I need to start going out at night fuelled by loads of alcohol with only a few ancient condoms in my purse, it being the lack of mechanically actions conducive to getting knocked up that they are referring to. The drawbacks to that plan working are, one, reliable baby sitting and two, time, people, TIME! I could get in touch with my inner slutty aibee and keep getting smashed and then laid, but it'd all end up the same. Three years would pass and then I'd be back saying "See? I really DO have fertility issues, you bunch of legislative windbags. Also! Crabs. Thanks a bunch." I don't think that's the argument he presented, but he must have presented a good one because when I saw him again, he told me that I'd been accepted into their IVF program.

Getting things rolling since then has been a balancing act and while I'd wanted to wean Daniel at his pace, I needed to wean him after a year because with each month, my egg quality reduces. Then there was the muppet face syndrome. What if this fool plan worked and I actually conceived a brother or sister for Daniel? So that got pencilled into the diary for after a year when Daniel was weaned, and before IVF, which is when conceivably I would come a fishwife with several children hanging onto my skirt with another bun in the proverbial oven and absolutely no chance of having my weird face issues addressed. The surgery got delayed so weaning Daniel did too, and the original plan of getting back up on that ol' fertility horse has been pushed back some more, but for the last year and a half I've been aiming at this. Obstacles have come along and I've taken them in my stride and I've always kept my eye on the ball. Which sounds kind of icky when talking conception. But! There's only one more bridge to cross and at the end of the month I'm seeing my craniofacial surgeon as there may be more surgery. Once that's done, I'll at the reproductive unit and leaping on the table with my legs in the air, ready, able and more than willing to give this a go, faster than you can light up a cigarette and ask "was it as good for you too, darlin'?".

I want this to work, but don't think I'll be devastated if it doesn't because while it will be sad to not succeed, I'll still have Daniel, and I'll also have the knowledge that I gave it my best.

In the meantime, I'm maximising my chances of conceiving. I'm selling all my baby items on ebay because Murphey's law being what it is, by the time I've sold the last damn thing, I'll probably need them all back again.

the lawyer

is my lawyer, and while I've known Gee since I was three and he'd just started school with my brother, and while he's been my lawyer since he graduated law school, I've never really known him. That's not code for "I've never known him *exaggerated wink while I jab you in the ribs with my elbow*" because if I'd meant to infer we've never mamboed horizontally (how's that for avoiding metaphors?) I'd just say we've never mamboed horizontally. That's not to say we have done the mambo, because we haven't. What I mean is I've never known him as anything more than my brother's best mate and the guy in a suit behind the desk at my lawyer's office. I always figured too, that he took me for as much as a loser as I take myself. He is my brother's best friend and my brother thinks (or thought as having a kid seems to have absolved me of all previous stupid) I'm a total waste of space, so it followed that he did too. He took on a lawsuit for me a few years back and whenever we met, I felt so intimidated because he's so successful and I was so...emaciated, and to my recollection, a total squirrel snack.

Earlier this year he did my will - which amounts to "I bequeath thee with my jam jar collection" but, whatever - and had some guardianship paperwork put in order, and as usual, charged about five cents to do it. I thanked him and having a service that I can offer in return, made the comment that if he ever wanted some personal training or some bowen bla bla bla. I never in a million years thought he'd say what he did, which was "Bowen? Great! How about next Friday?".

People, I about shit myself. This man is the kind of, well, to be honest, annoying fuck that if you walk in soaking wet, carrying an umbrella and saying "it's raining outside", says "only if I see it with my own eyes". I mention that not because I don't like him. I do, in the context I've known him. Polite, business like, short but kind of hot in a swarthy, Italian way. I mention it because dude is factual. I mean, FACTUAL. He's a lawyer so if it's a grey area, it ain't so, and a) I'm all about the grey area so if someone so RIGHT! says "nope, your name ain't aibee", I say "Really?" and start wondering "Is my name aibee?" b) Bowen is all grey area, but I smiled weakly and mumbled something about Friday being fine, see you at 6.30.

Next Friday came and I ushered him in and folks, it was really weird seeing the dude in a suit lounging on my sofa wearing jeans and....hello! Sidebar. Gee is loaded and despite being of the annoying fuck variety, has a heap of charisma and looks awesome in his designer label suits thanks to the aforementioned hot in a swarthy Italian way, but fuck me a frikkin' duck, casually? he's relying much more on Swarthy and Hot than he is on Designer and Label. We're talking biker tight, super skinny jeans with a high rise waistband. Granted, skinny jeans look The Shit on someone like Kate Moss, but so, so, so not so much so on a guy, especially when they're echoing the eighties with a button that does up around the Adam's apple region.

ANYWAY! Some Bowen Therapy and a bit of casual chit chat later, Gee says something or other about something and then says "but you know me, aibee, bla bla bla, something about something bla". I looked at him and said that actually, I don't know him, not really. I know him in context as a lawyer but that's it. He said something deep like "Oh yeah" and that was that. We chatted some more, we talked about some more bowen sessions and then he left.

Oh, that's right. The whole "you know me" line was after he'd told me that when my brother found out I was pregnant, he'd called Gee to ask him if he was the father. Which is totally surreal because I've only ever seen him a couple of times in the last twenty years and it's only ever been on professional terms. Gee said that it made sense because he was a slut and that my brother knew it and if anyone in My Town gets pregnant my brother automatically thinks it's him and "you know me, aibee" and etc.

A few days after that, Gee sent me a text and asked himself over for coffee. I was all, the fuck? because I figured he thought I was a frivolous hippy and as he was sensible lawyer, that I was annoying and stupid. yes, I do have an inflated sense of myself, shut up. I knew that he didn't want to come over for coffee *wink wink* because of the man code, the one that says "thou shalt not drink coffee *WINK!* with thy best friend's sister", so I put on the kettle and when he knocked on the door, I let him in.

The first thing he said was "I don't want to fuck you"(seriously, when I was younger I thought only grown ups in the movies spoke like this so paint me pink and call me Norma when I found out that movies I was watching were based on real life conversations) and I replied that I never thought he did. He said "but you're confused why I'm here" and I nodded. Seems he was here because having thought about my comment about us not knowing each other, he thought that it was kind of sad, especially considering that we've known each other so long, that he lived just up the road from me, that his mother practically raised me (one of my fondest memories of that time is the school jumper she hand knitted me. I loved that jumper more than anything. It was like wearing a hug each time I wore it) and that as we were had sons, we had a lot in common. So we sat and we talked and who knew? W talked about general this and that and ourselves and each other and we covered the topics of (him) the curve of my ass as I was lying face down on the li-lo in the pool at home way back in 1982, and how I'd batted his hands away from my flat chest after my brother had prostituted me to him back when I was twelve, the caveat to the man code being "unless I want to feel up my sister's best friend on a night both she and you are sleeping over at our house", and of (me) having no recollection whatsoever of any of those events. But he didn't want to sleep with me and little lambs eat ivy.

He's been over a couple or more times since then, and the general gist of the evenings are some bowen followed by coffee and a chat. We get along actually, despite him being the Black and White hero and me seeing life in shades of grey, and while I think I'm no mystery, he has a whole side that no one would ever in a million years know existed unless he expressly told them it did. He writes poetry, has written an historical novel, was a total romantic (until he was emotionally and metaphorically buttfucked by his divorce), and all sorts of frilly shirted things like that. I believed him when he says he doesn't want to fuck me, because he also said that he's done with the being slutty thing because he wants to be a better person for his son. I told him that, while my 'type' involves swarthy hot wogs, I was uber glad that he wasn't interested in seeing me naked because I had absolutely zero interest in getting laid by anyone anytime in the foreseeable future and that childbirth and motherhood must be the best contraception ever, I'm just sayin'. We both agreed too, that the curve of my ass has improved since 1982.

One night he came over one with a bottle of wine, and we hadn't drunk enough to explain it, but he reached over to hold my hand before moving to sit next to me on the sofa. I was all, uh, what are you doing? He was all, what are you thinking? "Mate", I said, "I'm thinking that this is some kind of joke because you've been very clear that you're not into me and I've been very clear that I have no libido, moreover, I do not even mourn its loss." He doesn't usually drink wine either, he'd bought it for me because...I guess that's what you do when you're trying to woo a woman. My stance was that I wasn;t interested in Just Sex anymore, and while I wasn't saying he needed to love me or me him (because truth is, I don't believe in that delusional bullshit), if we were ever going to pursue anything more than the platonic relationship we were forming, I'd like us to have a platonic relationship so that the sex thing wasn't THE thing that defined whatever relationship we were forming. Also, I like the guy. He likes Daniel and Daniel adores him and while we're just discovering each other now, we've known each other forever. I don't want to throw all that good history away by being uncomfortable or embarrassed after a (probably very satisfying) roll in the hay.

My friend Enn (a big shout out if you're reading, Enn!) told me I think too much and not surprisingly, Gee thought so too. Yes, I do, which is a problem and not only when I want more children and am given the opportunity to have unprotected sex days before I'm about to ovulate. The time line would have been the same as when I conceived Daniel too. Sex on a Saturday, ovulate sometime after the following Tuesday.

So that's the story about the lawyer.

He came back on the following Monday to apologise too. Seems he'd had a few drinks before he'd come over and bla bla bla but he really was deeply and most profoundly sorry to have put me in an uncomfortable position. I'm not sure where things are at now. He's been here once more since then, and before that night, we'dtalked about my going with him to visit with his mum again, and I'd have been comfortable sending him a text asking "today?". I'd not have thought twice about telling him that the kettle's boiling, drop by on your way home, we'd like to see you - but now? I haven't done so so I guess I'm no comfortable any more. I wonder too, because I think too much, about why he hit on me when if he just wanted to get laid, he could have gone out and picked up any of the bimbos he admits to adoring in the past. There's no strings attached with any of them, but with me? All that history? My son? My own history of hurt and abuse that he knows about? I imagine I'd be the last person he'd want to screw and walk away from because I can't imagine he wants to invite anyone that complicated into his life, as much as I doubt he didn't think about creating it in mine. This all happened over a month ago and I don't know what to think. So I think some more and still, I'm wondering if that awkward hand holding plus sofa sitting was because he doesn't know how to say to me "I like you, let's think about more." Maybe he doesn't know what to someone he's interested unless he's buying them a drink before asking if they want to fuck? And maybe I'm delusional to even entertain the idea that he'd be remotely interested in me. Not that I think he is. Recap: he knows me. Why would someone as successful as him want to know, much less be involved with, someone like me?

See?

And yes. Esteem issues. I KNOW.

bits

Having read a blog or two that contains line similar to or sugestive of "..so I jumped into my truck and drove around for a while...", I gather that in the States, a lot of trucks are being driven by the common man and/or woman.

People, this is a truck. What the hell are ya'll doing, parking one of those bitches in your driveway?

:::

I bought some new gym gear recently and was feeling mighty fine until I copped en eyeful of my reflection and fuck if my hot shit new track pants don't give me a frikkin' camel toe. When I'm standing, their crotch sits around an inch, maybe two below my own (I'm wearing the stupid pants right now in the privacy of my own home and yes, actually I really did get out the tape measure to give you an accurate reading) and there's absolutely no clingage so technically speaking everything should be a-ok, but thanks to an ill placed seam, I look like Lil' Kim.

:::

Daniel is still asleep so as I type this. He's slept two naps worth this afternoon, probably because he woke at dawn, the sole purpose for his conscious state being to sit on top of me and grab my nose. Good morning to you too, you little fucker. I guess those are the kind of reasons people prefer to sleep apart from their progeny but truth is, those are the kind of reasons why I like to.

:::

For those of you who have been keeping notes, as of last week and at almost eighteen months old, Daniel is no longer breastfeeding. I never planned on having a prepubescent pawing at my boobs, but by the same token, I did want to be led by Daniel vis a vis the whole weaning deal. Side bar: anyone still feeding their far from infant child is guided by their own wants and NOT their child's needs. As babies grow into toddlers, breastfeeding is probably more about comfort and closeness than it is sustenance and nutrition, so in my opinion, given that they are provided with what they need nutritionally and emotionally, and given that they are allowed to develop their own strategies in a safe and nurturing environment, children can and will wean themselves before they turn eighteen. In the same way that babies learn how to walk and talk, so do they learn gain independence and to meet their own needs for soothing and comfort. I'm not advocating leaving them in the woods with a can opener, a pup tent and a box of matches and letting them work it out for themselves. I guess what I'm saying is that while they are itty bitty blobs of malleable brain matter, we as parents still need to be guided by our children as much as we need to guide them. It's symbiotic. We need to take note of who they are and where they're at and use that knowledge to guide us as we guide them.

Bla bla bla. The important thing here is that I rule because honestly? I'd prefer to keep breastfeeding. It'd be easy to convince Daniel to keep up with my mothering timetable because he is, after all, still podlike and blobby in so many ways. Anyone thinking that my desire to keep breastfeeding dealio is indicative of my want to hang on to my baby, no shit, Sherlock. Ya think? Which is the exact reason why I do SO awesomely rule.

He's not getting his hair cut though.

:::

Speaking of breastfeeding, sucky parenting skilz, and my judgmental self, I have this friend, Elle. Her daughter, Tee, is twenty one months old and is still mostly breastfed. She's also a sickly child who never smiles. Back in the day, Tee was the baby you wanted your five month younger baby to grow up to be. She smiled all the time and was so connected with the world. Her eyes were bright and she took everything in. I remember her clapping her hands with joy as she laughed out loud. She was excited and engaged, and she was a joy to be with. Somewhere along the way though, Tee stopped smiling, and along that way I started thinking the things that I'd noticed were things I'd never do to a child. Things like, I don't think it's right to nurse your kid because whatever boo boo they've encountered, whatever frustration they're feeling, is so bad that they need their mother's breast to soothe them. No matter what happened, no matter how trivial it was, Elle would scoop Tee up and convince her that everything was okay, mummy was here and so was her boob. I don't think that kind of comfort teaches a child to trust, I think it teaches a child that the world is a fearful place and that the only way to find comfort is at your mother's breast. Am I right or am I right? I'm right, aren't I? So anyway, Tee is clingy and needy and refuses to eat anything, and her mother complies. Tee is always sick, be it gastroenteritis (you dudes call it stomach flu, I think) or a cold or an ear infection, she's always got something wrong. Now, I try not to be bossy or to solve other's problems based on what I think they need to know because to each his own and etc, so in the course of general conversation, all I've done is mention that it was having one cold after another for three months that caused Daniel to be iron deficient last year, and that it was being iron deficient that led him to catch one cold after another and hey! Did Elle think it might be worthwhile to get Tee's bloods done to check for the same thing? What I didn't say was, especially since Tee won't eat anything because you breastfeed her All. The. Time. Elle's story is that Tee won't eat and that's why she breastfeeds her but chicken or egg, man. Jaysus. Elle thinks that she has s difficult child and that her life is hard, whereas I think she's the goddamn parent and that she should quit taking the easy way out.

None of this is my business, but then again, isn't every child's welfare our business? I'm conflicted because I really don't want to be a "you need to do this this and this" type of person, but at what point doesn it become negligent to not grab your friend by the shoulders and tell her to wake up to her damn self, to get her damn child to the paediatricians, to buy a dan clue because somethings not right here?

In my world it all follows a logical sequence that I probably can't explain: Tee's regular, every day, baby world problems and frustrations have only ever been solved by her mother proffering a well utilised breast. Baby world problems and frustrations encourage problem solving and personal growth. Tee's never had the opportunity to learn to meet challenges like reaching the damn ball or taking the stupid rattle that's kind of stuck in her own baby sized mouth so has become a fearful child who only knows how to nurse to soothe her worried self. Elle encourages this so Tee doesn't have a nurturing environment that encourages personal growth, and because she nurses so much she's always full of breastmilk so refuses all other food, and Elle encourages this too. Because of this, Tee is low on essential nutrients so succumbs to whatever germ of bug passes by, and because of this, is low on essential nutrients and feels poorly so wants to be soothed and doesn't know how to be soothed apart from at the breast so is full and so doesn't want to eat anything else so is low on other nutrietns and so and so and so.

I'm not saying all her problems are based on breastfeeding, but that the constant breastfeeding is reflective of the culture she's being raised in.

It's not my place and it's not my problem, but doesn't it take a village to raise a child? Or something?

:::

For those of you taking even more obscure and freakily intimate notes on my amazingly interesting life, I only missed one period during the whole Two Operations In Three Weeks And Just How Much More Weight Can I Lose In A Short Space Of Time? saga. One! So not only do I rule, my ovaries do too. Check your notes. You'll find that in the past, it took a mere breath of air from a butterfly's wings to throw my womanly cycle from its precarious course and into the Chasm Of Where The Fuck Is It? and here I am, ovulating all over the place and being all, like, normal and shit.

So yes, I got my period last Tuesday and sixteen days before that, I turned down sex with a kersquillionaire lawyer. Add one, carry the two and yessiree, I could have been pregnant with the second child I so, so, so, desire.

And that is another story for another day. Or two stories for two other days. The lawyer one and the want more children one. Three. Four stories even, if you want the stories about what I'm going to do about story one and story two.