Cake, steak, take
There are some things I've been meaning to tell you:
- When I was still slogging through the dark and carbless doldrums of the gestational diabetes diet, I valiantly tried to give myself a pep talk. "Why, this pregnancy thing is easy! Nothin' but blue skies ahead, I tell you. In fact, it's a goddamn cake walk."
"Yeah," said Paul, "without the cake."
- I do not like the term breast milk. It's a weird kind of synecdoche that makes me imagine disembodied breasts being processed like soybeans: soaked, crushed, cooked, and pressed for their rich and healthful juices.
Since breast milk seems to be the term of record, however, I think I am going to start calling the kind that comes from a cow steak milk.
- The cat, barely a year old, is a little too playful to be trusted around baby-related implements. The nail clippers routinely end up on the floor. The pacifiers have to be washed many times a day because he's fascinated by the clicking sound they make when batted across the kitchen tile. And this morning he made off with my nipple shield.
Here's what upset me most about that: even the cat has a better latch than Charlie.