Promise You'll Tell?

Yesterday, while in the bathroom at the office I felt like I was in a time warp. Like, hello-and-welcome-to-the-late-nineties time warp. And you would have said so too if the shoes in the stall next to you were black loafers with a 2 inch chunky heel with a square toe and elasticized jersey material. to take it a step further: there was a thin woven leather belt on the ground next to it. I honestly stopped and started flipping through to try to remember if today was a dress-up day and I'd somehow overlooked it. I expressly remember when that was in style, and it would not be fair to say it was 'a few' seasons ago. I fully expected to step out and see full-on mom jeans with a heavy color blocked rugby shirt on top... tucked into said jeans and cinched at the waist.

But instead of waiting around to see, I darted out there feeling shocked and a little guilty for mentally trash-talking someone's unintentional retro outfit. (yes, of course I washed my hands)

Which brings me to this: promise that when the day comes that I am that person dreadfully out of style, even to the point that a new mom who rarely 'dresses up' past yoga pants for the day (yes, work out clothes and I've yet to work out), promise you will tell me. Drop me a copy of last season's Vogue if you can spare it, forcefully clean out my closet, demand I hand over the belt. Whatever it takes. Because a true friend will tell you.

Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!

As a fine first official day of not breastfeeding and just hours after returning the symphony breastpump... we learn there is a recall on Similac. Sure, it's 'not a health risk' and it is a 'voluntary' recall by Abbott... but it is beyond disguisting to learn that beetles got into the processing plant and beetle parts could be in the formula. Can I even try to explain how it feels to know you have been feeding your child, snuggled up in your arms, hungry, and you've been giving feeding him small bits of insects that upset his stomach. It shouldn't be surprising that it upsets my stomach, too.

To make matters worse: there is now no formula available since 5 million containers were recalled. So deal with the dagger of knowing your baby has been getting tained food and then figure out what the hell you are going to feed your baby for his next meal. Awesome.

So much for relishing any feeling of 'wow you made it to 8 months breastfeeding. It's a no-brainer that anyone would rather give formula than let their child go hungry. But when I stopped trying (even for the miniscule amount), it felt like a choice. Even though by the end, a 40 minute pumping session only yielded 20ml (when typical feeding might be 200-240mL, 5-6 times a day). But damn if this doesn't feel like lemon juice in a paper cut.

No Pants

This is "No Pants" the friendly neighborhood kitty that will happily accompany you on your run, walk with you down the street, jump up on you pant leg just to say 'hello' or even -if the opportunity presents itself- let himself into your home for a visit.

No pants officially lives down the street, about halfway between our house and our nanny-sharing friends. Which means that every other week I walk to drop off and/or pick up the shorty from his friend's house.

On said walk, I typically see and am greeted by ... You guessed it... No pants.

Given that the Shorty said his first word today, "kitty" and that No Pants was part if his inspirarion- I decided No Pants needed recognition on the blaaahhog

We love you, too, No Pants.