or Just Van Gogh for It
Starry, starry night.
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,
Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent’s eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand.
-from don mcLean’s starry starry night…
Happy May, people =) One month gone.
Where did it go? Where did your month go?
Mine went to figuring out the subtle tricks to keep (–) alive. I think me and J are getting pretty good…. =) (My nipples disagree, but we’ll ignore their bloody cries for now.) All I can say is: I used to mock the idea of a lactation consultant. I mean, a breast-feeding consultant? Are you f-ing kidding me? What’s easier than putting your kid to your boob and having it eat?
I guess a lot of things, to be honest.
Lactation consultants and people who have seeked them out: My apologies, because it is NOT easy! (Or my kid’s dysfunctional >:P Or my nipples are dysfunctional >:P) Either way… breastfeeding… es ist keine Ponyhof. (German for: Shit hurts like a mofo!)
Counter-bonus: I think I’m secretly a baby-factory… I had a breezy pregnancy and now wake up in a puddle of my own breast milk regularly. I’m starting to consider selling this stuff. Online, some women call it the ‘white gold’… Complicated dances and intricate deals must be made with the devil for their milk to emerge. It’s got little to do with breast size, but the position of the stars in the sky. And luck. ‘Oh yes,’ my mom’s best friend in Hungary says. ‘Look at these huge leather sacks! -here she tugs at her breasts dismissively- ‘You think any decent amount of milk ever came out of them? Bah! And then you see these skinny little bitches and milk’s running down all the way to their ____s!’
I’ve been one of those lucky bitches. No lambs sacrificed to the princess of Darkness, yet my tatas are twin ICBMs poised to feed a Vietnamese child army. Should I try to sell this? Should I do my good deed for the year and donate?
I’ll have to look into this…