Milk.

Currently listening to: Perry Como - Beginning to look a lot like Christmas

After the miscarriage, for some odd reason, my milk came in. Lots of it.

One second everything was normal, the next my husband's face looked kind of like this -

O____O

and he's pointing at my chest. I look down and voila, I'm leaking from the right breast - shirt's wet in a perfect circle. A moment of silence followed, and suddenly I was flailing my way to the bathroom. Remember how I mentioned in the last post I have a messed up idea of how the human body works? Yeah.

My little human body was under the impression that I had just given birth to a baby, so naturally, milk time! I took it as a sign that my breasts are fully capable of feeding a small country (I grew I don't even know how many sizes, I was wearing sports bras the entire time) - POSITIVISM!

True, it was a painful reminder that I had lost a baby, but even my doctor said he was surprised any milk came in at all and that was a very healthy sign. I decided to be positive about this. Again: positivism!

I know what you're all wondering, sickos, so I'll share: I pumped some to try. I must say I make pretty good milk - HAPPY?! Also, I may or not have squished the source to see how far the milk would land, along with other childish manifestations. Don't judge me!

Finally, after a couple of weeks of hot towels, stained work shirts, and torture sessions aimed at Craig (kept telling him I was going to put some Jenny milk in his breakfast milk - drove him bonkers :) the milk started to wean, and life started to go back to normal.

So that was that. I wonder how it'll taste with eggnog? Guess we'll find out next year!

Hyperchondriac?

Currently listening to: the sound of my own frustration.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I have a warped sense of how the human body works. It still escapes my mind how one of my intestines is 20 feet long, not to mention the fact that I spent years completely misunderstanding what menstruation is all about.

A few days ago I felt, under my tongue, a sore. A canker sore, uncomfortable even to talk.


Damned be the second I discovered Google!


A minute later I was frantically informing my husband I may have oral cancer and I needed to get an appointment to see the doctor ASAP. He gave me a sideways glance and sighed, as I read deeper and deeper into the symptoms of the disease - and then he snatched my iPhone off my hand.


And that's where "hyperchondriac" was born. Or at least coined.


I'm pretty sure it was born right around the time Craig and I started flirting with the idea of becoming three. I started obsessing with getting healthier, stronger, fit to be a baby machine. Before the opportunity of becoming a mother became available, I didn't pay much attention to being healthy. 


Well, now I'm a hyperchondriac, that freaks out if my basal temperature one particular morning is below the normal threshold (HYPOTHYROIDISM? omg no). In a way I realize it's a good thing, I'm worrying about my health for a good reason, but it's also a source of infinite amusement to my jerk of a spouse. Whatevsss.


In other, far more exciting news: I want to quit my job. Ta-dah!