Gooey Bear

I'm tired.  I just finished dinner after taking 'Rad and Blue out for a walk, washing bottles, cooking dinner, reading Connor a story and putting him down for his late nap.  I still need to study, unload the dishwasher, and put away the clothes I've strewn all over the bed since this morning.  I would add to that to-do list "put away and organize my shoes," but since Z snarkily asked me to do that yesterday after I busted my ass at home while he was in class (not saying that's not work, too), I'm going to pretend there isn't a stack of shoes tripping over themselves next to the closet.  I've heard this said quite a few times over the past week and I'm inclined to agree: Guys are wimps.  I love you, Z, but deal with the shoes.  Does it matter that I snarkily told him to put his behemoth shoes away the day before yesterday because I kept tripping over them.  Eh.

Who wouldn't be happy on a Saturday morning?

Last night I drank a cup of tea that's supposed to increase milk production.  This morning I woke up and pumped almost 3 oz less than I usually do in the morning.  All day my production wasn't much more impressive.  I've held on for 5 months, but I think it's time I start weaning the little dude off of the boob juice in earnest.  It doesn't help that the little beastie is downing 7 oz at each feeding these days; I'm lucky if I can get 4 oz at each pumping session.  I remember the pride I felt in my milk-producing heydays when I could stash away a 2- or 4-oz bottle in the freezer, like I was putting money away in a savings account.  But that liquid goldmine has almost been depleted and I'm staring down the barrel of full-on formula feeding (kind of a con, financially) and no longer having to worry about what I'm eating or drinking (pro, except I'll miss having breastfeeding as a guilt-free reason to have a chocolate croissant in the morning).

Why so surprised, 'Rad?

I think I'm ready, though.  Pumping is a time-suck, although one of the few reasons I'd like to continue doing it is that it provides me a few 15-minute respites during the workday.  What did I do before pumping at work?  Sitting at my desk for more than 3 hours straight seems like a real drag.  I'll have to retrain my mind to stay focused for at least that long - no easy feat since it rejects simple tasks like remembering what I walked into a room for and that I need to do my hair before driving off to work.

Once upon a time, pre-'Rad, I wrote a short story for my nieces and nephews.  They were characterized by their spirit animals.  Not official spirit animals, but the ones that we decided were the most fitting or that they would eventually grow into.  My oldest niece was a lion.  Her sister and brother, turtle and rhino.  My oldest nephew was the monkey.  My sister and I have been trying to nail down Connor's spirit animal, which eluded us as we tried to peg him as a raccoon, squirrel, and chipmunk.  I think I have it this time, though.  Thanks to the cuteness of children's clothing and his squishy, lovable exterior and growing voice, I deem you, Conrado Ramone, the bear.

A cool guy.  The bear.

It started when Z and I were getting dressed to go for a walk.  Connor had on a hoodie with bear ears on top (thanks, Auntie), and I put him in his snowsuit, also with little ears on top (again, thank you Auntie).  Boom.  He became Double Bear.  More descriptively, he became a gooey bear with a crunchy outer-bear shell.  If he's not in his snowsuit, he's simply Gooey Bear.  All in all, he became my little bear, the cuddliest little cub you'd ever want to squish (side note: 'Rad's really not a cuddler at all, but he humors me from time to time).