My son is out of control. If I nurse him in my bedroom, he’s obsessed with the clock and the kleenex and the monkey cup on my nightstand and won’t stop grabbing for them. If I nurse him in the rocking chair he’s obsessed with the books we read at night, Goodnight Gorilla, Goodnight Moon, Pat the Bunny, The Very Hunger Caterpillar, and won’t stop grabbing for them. So, I basically can’t nurse him anymore. This freaks me out. Is he weaning himself? Even worse, am I going to have to PUMP? My boobs are killing me. I thought one of two friends would make a birthday cake for boo but they’re not, so I’m going to have to buy one. We have no money. We’re having like 50 people plus babies for his birthday party and there’s so much to do. I went to the doctor last week and she drew blood and hasn’t called me yet with the results so I’m convinced she found something fatal. I really want to finish this email cum book proposal I’m supposed to send to Carolynn, but I don’t have a babysitter and Harlan’s teaching all day. What else? I’m sure there’s something else. This growth on my face makes me look like one of those apple dolls that’s all puckered and pruney and collapsing in on itself. I’m exhausted. I’m cold. I’m hungry. Guess I’ll remedy at least one of these things and feed my face.

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