(This is try #2 for this post–I got all the way to the end of the first try and it apparently didn’t pass because Blogger ate the entry and then the browser shut completely down and guess what? No More Entry. Here’s to hoping it goes better this time!)

The husband and I took Owen to get his first ‘real’ pictures today. “How did it go?”, you ask. Well, I have carrot cake with cream cheese frosting (my self-medicate drug of choice) and a rescheduled appointment to try again tomorrow, which would indicate that things did not go according to plan.

I should have taken the cue when I lifted Owen out of his seat about 5 minutes after we got to the picture place and smelled something suspicious. If Owen had been a cartoon, there would have been lots of wavy little stink lines wafting out from his little butt. Since he is booby-fed, he only poops about once every three days, which is normal. In fact, he could even go only once a week and this would still be considered normal. Three days worth of not going is bad enough. Let us pray hope that is the longest he ever waits. Lately we’ve been lucky enough to hit the nasty diaper lottery and have the dirty diaper happen at home. I say lucky only because every time he has a dirty diaper, we also play poop roulette…will I be lucky and he won’t have a blowout or will I lose everything and have to try to get clothes off of him in such a manner as to not get poop all over everything. Good times we have at my house.

So we managed to get Owen all cleaned up (with only three wipes in the entire diaper bag no less. Need to remember to re-stock or our next outing could be really ugly) and got one semi-decent smile out of him before he decided that he didn’t really want to have his picture taken. At all. At home, The Boy smiles constantly. He even giggles too. Occasionally, he’ll even pull out his fake cough impression that we taught him as well. At the picture place? Not so much, in fact, pretty much not at all. We finally just decided to call it a day and reschedule for tomorrow. Of couse, upon returning home, all Owen wanted to do was to smile, giggle and ‘talk’. Is it really too much to ask for just one real picture of his cute little smile?
I’m really smiling on the inside

Only because there will be mention of boobage and nipples in this post…but sorry, its all about nursing the baby. Nothing exciting here with the old boobs (well exciting to me…but not in an XXX-Pee-Wee Herman in an adult theatre kind of exciting) so if that’s what you’re looking for…well, you might want to try again.

Now for those who stayed–I have exciting news! Bear in mind, it doesn’t take much these days…the boy pooped and didn’t have a blow-out all over his cute outfit and the blanket underneath? I’m ecstatic. I got everything done on my list AND a load of towels through the washer and dryer before they started smelling funny? I’m over the moon about it.

So my exciting news? The Boy (who is laying on my lap and making the most adorable ‘O’ sound as I type this) has lost his training wheels…with regard to nursing anyway. Let me explain. When we first started this adventure called parenthood a little over two months ago, the nursing part of it…well, it wasn’t going as well as I had expected. Owen didn’t seem to want to latch on and when we could get him to latch on correctly…he wasn’t interested in actually working to get anything out. Trying to help, the lactation consultant introduced the nipple shield to help us out. Which, I have to admit, it did help us out and allow The Boy to eat without giving me a nervous breakdown every time. However, there were some drawbacks…other than the fact that having to put a little piece of nipple shaped plastic (kind of made me think of a contact lens…but for your nipple) on before every feeding made me feel like Pointy McClownyboob, it also stunk to have to race around trying to remember where the shield was put last in order to feed Owen who would be voicing his displeasure at the decibel level of a large jackhammer at the indignity of having to wait to eat. Not to mention the panicky feeling that would grip me each time I thought of having to nurse The Boy in public using the shield. Or the other panicky feeling if we left home and forgot the shield and having to stop at Target to pick up another…well, it just wasn’t something I wanted to have to deal with over the long-term.

The lactation consultant had told us at one point that she thought that Owen, once he got a little bit bigger and more practiced at nursing, would be able to latch on and nurse on his own without his ‘training wheels’. Originally, I had thought that we would work on transitioning from nursing with the shield to just nursing after I am fully done with work and am at home all the time again (I have to go back on the 9th of October and have to work for six weeks…but then I’m free–it’s funny the things you’ll do for good insurance coverage). However, Owen and I were spending some quality time on the couch Sunday evening…and I decided to be brave and see if he would even be interested in nursing on his own. Lo and behold…HE GOT IT ON THE FIRST TRY!!! Now this is not to say that there wasn’t some ugliness later on in the evening when Mr. Crankypants realized that if he was going to eat, it was going to require some work on his part and that the shield wasn’t coming back…but here we are 2 days later…AND IT’S LIKE IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN FROM THE VERY BEGINNING. No more worrying about where the stupid shield got put last, or if we have the shield with us everytime we’ll be leaving the house for longer than 2 hours at a time…no more panic at the thought of having to try to position the shield and The Boy’s head onto the nipple all while under a blanket out in public. Internet, I tell you, this has made my day/week/month.

Now if I can just get Owen to sleep for more than a half an hour at naptime and to go to bed before 1 or 2 am on a regular basis, we’ll have it made for the whole year.

Why is it, that on the night that I need to write two short essays and do some serious studying for a test that covers the first 5 chapters in my Sociology book, The Boy is not a happy camper and will not go in the swing, in the bouncy seat, sleep or even nurse for more than about 20 minutes at a time without resorting to screaming like we took away Christmas and his birthday? Yet, on the very next night, when I can just sit and hold him for hours on end or until my shoulder falls off, The Boy is able to be placed in the swing and is as docile as can be, falling asleep 20 fuss-free minutes later. It’s like he knows just when to be a pill.

*Sigh* It’s going to be a long semester.