Addie Alive!

When I was a little girl, it devastated my mom that I wasn't into baby dolls. I was more of a fashion doll girl-- Barbie, Lady Lovely Locks (yeah, I just trotted out Lady Lovely Locks, let the reminiscing begin!), anything that had hair that could be brushed, braided, and eventually cut into an extremely unflattering female gym teacher bob. But for some reason, baby dolls just never interested me-- why would I want a toy whose main purpose was to pee on me?

Now that Addie is here, I realize that, even with the fantastical advances in fake infant behavior (they poop now! THEY POOP!), perhaps the main reason baby dolls disinterested me is because they did not accurately depict the many varied actions an actual baby can possess. For instance, if there were an Addie baby doll (which there should be, and which I would market as Addie Alive!), it would be capable of all of the following real-life dolly actions:

• Viciously punching itself in the sides as if it were King Kong
• Super kung-fu hair hank death grip
• Intermittent release of noxious butt fumes
• Random heart-melting sighs of contentedness, especially after the release the aforementioned fumes
• Stealth sock removal skills
• Vicious head-butting action
• Laser-precision spit up aim (particularly when held overhead in a game of Superbaby)

Actually, when I put it that way, it sounds like Addie Alive! would make a much better action figure than a doll. Except for the heart-melting sighs. But I think the ass stink more than balances that out.

Addie Alive! may be hazardous to anyone under the age of three, pets that dare to wander into her range of motion, or people who enjoy having their clothes unsoiled by bodily fluids. Do not use Addie Alive! if you require more than six hours of sleep a night. All accessories, medical bills, foodstuffs and college tuition sold separately at outrageous prices. Allow nine months for delivery.

Addie at Four Months

It seems absolutely impossible that four months ago today, Ben, Addie and I were spending our first night together as a family. It seems impossible that four months have gone by so quickly, and impossible that there was ever a time that she wasn't already here.

But before I devolve into a teary rendition of "Sunrise, Sunset," let me post her official birthday picture. Her cuteness will distract me from the fact that someone has apparently pressed the fast forward button on my life:

See? That face can cure cancer. For reals. Or if not cure it, at least kick the shit out of it:

Oh, snap! Pinned by the sheep! I'll get you next time, foul beast!

My life as a cow

I decided long before Addie was born that I was going to breastfeed, and I don't regret the experience one bit-- it's a fantastic way to bond with my baby, it gives her the nutrients and antibodies that she needs to grow strong and healthy, and it is an excellent excuse to sit on the couch and watch reruns of Glee without having to feel guilty that I'm not accomplishing anything. However, when you both breastfeed and work-- because apparently you can't buy diapers with baby smiles-- you are also required to pump, which is an almost debilitatingly unpleasant experience.

I suppose it could be worse-- I at least have an office I can pump in. Without it, I would be forced to go to the Women's Room at work, which is really just a small room with a shower and a bench in it (why is there a shower at the insurance company where I work? Has there ever been a woman sitting at her desk thinking, "Man! Binding these policies has really caused me to work up a sweat!"). The room is governed by its own set of laws, making it a lactation Thunderdome-- Four boobs enter, two boobs leave.

Even my office, though, is not free from peril-- I have a small window that looks out into the common area, leaving me exposed to gawkers. I ordered blinds, but due to a snafu, they never arrived; too freaked out from fending off an extremely aggressive fellow pumper who attempted to bust in on me during my last visit to the Women's Room, I took matters into my own hands and just taped a bunch of paper over the window:

But as you can see, for reasons beyond even my own understanding, I chose to use paper that was already pre-three-hole-punched, essentially turning my office into a peep booth for any brave soul who dared to put his eye up to it. Sort of like that Madonna video for "Open Your Heart," only instead of getting a glimpse of Madge, you get to see me hooked up to a milking machine. Sexy.

Also, you will find that should you put up a giant wall of holey paper over your common room window, you are basically announcing to the world HELLO! I AM MILKING MYSELF IN HERE! PLEASE ASK ME ABOUT IT! And people will ask you about it-- coworkers, the maintenance guy, and, in fact, the guy I called today to ask why my blinds never showed up ("Oh!" he said. "That's your crazy office!").

I'm not sure it will be much better when the blinds arrive-- yes, it will be classier. But it will also serve as the proverbial Sock on the Door-- Blinds up = stop on by! Blinds down = National Geographic Boobs On Display.

All I know is, three times a day, five days a week, I have to live with the fact that I am, for all intents and purposes, topless at my desk at work, and everyone knows it. Among the people in my department, I refer to the act of pumping as "The Unspeakable," as in "I wish I could help you with this project, but I have to go commit The Unspeakable right now."

After all that work-based nudity, I guess I could use a good shower...

...you know, unless it IS

So hey, remember how I wrote that whole thing about post-partum thyroiditis, and how I probably had that, and it was SO CRAZY because I had all the symptoms and I was so proud of myself for actually realizing that there was something wrong with me, etc? Well, scratch all that, because apparently I DON'T have post-partum thyroiditis; in fact, I called the doctor's office and all of my blood tests came back totally normal. Which is awesome and all, because it means I'm not in the process of blowing out my thyroid, but not awesome, because it means I now have no explanation for my hair loss OR my rash, other than that I am That Gross Woman now.

You know, the one you see in the cafeteria at work, or at the bus stop while you're driving by in your nice, non-rashy car. With the conspicuous bald spot and the bright red welts all over her arms. And you think, oh, wow, look at That Gross Woman.

That is me! I am her! I'm That Gross Woman! Are they going to come and take away my car? Am I going to have to start eating Marie Callander pot pies for lunch every day? Is there some sort of handbook for this? I haven't been this set adrift since my time as That Stupidly Ugly Teenager!

Sometimes, hypochondria, isn't

I don't get sick often, but when I do, I usually assume that it's cancer. This seems like an excellent strategy-- a night or two of freaking out, followed by a resigned evening searching the Internet for acceptable wigs to cover up my inevitable chemo-induced hair loss (sometimes I consider snoods, but I usually reject them as being too Thirtysomething), and then, when I finally find out that I only have a sinus infection, things don't seem so bad.

So this time, when I developed a set of bizarre symptoms-- startling easily, inability to concentrate, vague neck pain, blotchy rash-- I decided to call a doctor. It was probably just stress, or a bad reaction to my new birth control pills (or ringworm! Because of course I spent a frenzied night studying pictures of ringworm on Google) (which I don't recommend, because ringworm is totally gross).

After a brief once-over by the male nurse (which, by the way, I will never stop thinking male nurses are funny), the doctor came in, and I began describing my symptoms to her. Rather than doing the old flashlight-up-the-nose routine, she began subjecting me to some very strange tests involving my reflexes (at which point my brain said CANCER! YOU HAVE REFLEXES CANCER!), and then announced something totally odd: for once, my bizarre symptoms actually meant something.

It turns out that, pending the results of a blood test, I have something called post-partum thyroiditis, which evidently afflicts around 5% of post-partum women (because I'm doomed to excel in every area of life). Even weirder is that this disease has even more symptoms that I have and didn't even know were symptoms, such as rapid weight loss (which I totally just thought was from breast-feeding, so now when people ask why I'm so skinny, I have to tell them it's because I'm a diseased freak, rather than a super-dedicated nursing mom) and unexplained hair loss.

Apparently, while sort of scary-sounding, this problem can be fixed relatively easily with some pills. But it does have one more giant downfall: following this period of hyperthyroidism, which is the source of the weight loss, there is a much longer period of hypothyroidism, which causes rapid weight gain. Farewell, brand-new size eight pants!

But you know what? At least it's not reflexes cancer.