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Archive for the ‘Mommy’ Category

Say you’re like me. Say you love ice cream. And say by chance you also love breasts. Well, then, dummy head, why hadn’t you already thought of this?

London shop to make breast milk ice cream

A specialist ice cream parlour plans to serve up breast milk ice cream and says people should think of it as an organic, free-range treat.

The breast milk concoction, called the “Baby Gaga”, will be available from Friday at the Icecreamists restaurant in London’s Covent Garden.

Icecreamists founder Matt O’Connor was confident his take on the “miracle of motherhood” and priced at a hefty 14 pounds ($23) a serving will go down a treat with the paying public.

Truth be told, this story kind of gives me the jeebs. It’s not the part about “drinking breast milk” that bothers me. It’s the part about “drinking breast milk from some random lady.” In the interest of full disclosure, I’ve tasted Leigh Ann’s breast milk before and it’s actually quite sweet. But that’s what marriage is, right? Two people in love, willing to give each other’s bodily fluids the benefit of the doubt. Outside of that, I’ll stick with vanilla.

UPDATE: Party’s over, people. As I write this, the U.K. is shutting Icecreamists down. Something about a public health hazard. Yawn.

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I used to think Freud was full of shizzat. Oedipal fantasies? Hysteria? Penis envy? Hogwash.

But I confess I’m getting a little jealous of Leigh Ann’s breasts. Call it boob envy. Those two mounds of mammary glory may be the greatest childcare tools in the history of mankind. Nate wakes up screaming? Put him on the boob. Nate won’t go down? Put him on the boob. Nate gets restless at his Mommy & Me class? Put him on the boob.

But what happens when Mommy’s not around? Well, what happens is poor boobless Daddy has to fumble with re-heating refrigerated breast milk and, by the time he’s done, Nate is usually teetering on bat shit crazy. I feel like an Amish guy trying to raise a barn without a hammer. I mean well. But, really, I’m just in the way.

Long story short, let us not forget that nature has her own ground rules – some several million years in the making – and we break them at our peril.

Or, as some old fart once said, “Anatomy is destiny.”

"Tell me about your mother, Scott."

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Hello, everyone.  I’m the other half of Daddy’s My Mommy — aka Mommy’s My Mommy, aka Jennifer Aniston’s body double, aka Leigh Ann. I was cajoled into writing a “guest blog” for today, so here goes.

Although my husband likes to tell jokes, even funny ones as times, he’s not really a practical joker. The true practical joker in our family, it turns out, is our baby.

Here’s a rundown of some of the “jokes” little Nathan and Reese have played on their Mommy and Daddy so far . . .

Joke #1: “I don’t actually exist.”

At our first ultrasound, the technician said she “didn’t see a baby yet.”  Real funny, right?  For a few seconds, I was numb. Then she said, “Wait, there it is.” And sure enough, there was a pea-sized blob with a beating heart.  We were completely relieved.

Joke #2: “I might be retarded.”

Everything was going smoothly until we had an ultrasound to test for genetic abnormalities. Our sonographer seemed to think things looked good, but the nuchal translucency fold was borderline high.  That combined with my age meant we had screened “risk positive” for Down’s syndrome.  Subsequent blood work improved our odds, but still placed us in the high-risk category.  After discussing our options, Scott and I decided to have a CVS to know whether the baby had Down’s (or anything else). If we were going to raise a special needs baby, we felt we needed time to prepare.  Thankfully, the results were negative.  There was nothing wrong with our baby . . . besides having us for parents.

Joke #3: “I gave Mommy diabetes.”

Then came the glucose-tolerance test, which of course I failed.  The doctor asked me to retake the test, but this time over a three-hour stretch.  She said that we would “laugh” at how normal my numbers were, but that we had to do this as a precaution.  (Gestational diabetes can cause very big babies that are difficult to deliver.)  So I fasted for 12 hours, then, light-headed and hungry, drove to a clinic in Beverly Hills and had my blood taken every hour on the hour . . . and, just like my doctor said, my numbers WERE completely normal.  Real funny, little one.  Now can I have my Krispy Kreme donuts back?

Joke #4: “My Mommy has polyhydramnio-something.”

At our 25-week checkup, my doctor measured my fundal height at 30 cm.  As you are all probably aware, the number of centimeters should match the number of weeks.  So this 5-cm “explosion” led to another diagnostic ultrasound. Since the first one went so well, we were just thrilled at the opportunity to have yet another thing “possibly wrong” with our baby. This time it was the amniotic fluid: there might be too much of it (a condition called polyhydramnios, which can be the result of a swallowing problem, an infection, or a birth defect).  But two weeks later at a follow-up ultrasound, I was back in the normal range and the doctors chalked it up to a growth spurt.  Lest you think our baby wasn’t enjoying this, have a look at our ultrasound from that day.  Does that look like a smile to you?

All jokes aside, we’re thrilled to be bringing this little man or little woman into the world.  Nathan or Reese, we already love you.

But, gosh, do you have a warped sense of humor.

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I’m about to do something crazy. For one day, I’m going to turn this blog over to my better half and let her write about whatever she wants.

Stay tuned. And see you tomorrow . . .

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I’ve made them all thus far . . .

. . . the week 8 ultrasound, the week 12 check-up, the triple marker blood screen test, the serum integrated screening, the nuchal translucency test, the week 18 anatomical survey, the week 22 check-up, the week 26 gestational diabetes test, the 3D ultrasound, and the week 30 check-up.

But that glorious streak is about to end. Because this afternoon’s appointment includes something called a Group B Strep culture. Maybe you had a better immune system than I did, but I remember having strep throat about 8,000,000 times as a child. The worst part was always that super long “cotton swab on a stick” that the nurse stuck down your throat and jiggled around for a culture.

Only now I find out that Group B Strep is quite different from Group A. For starters, it causes things a lot worse than a sore throat in newborns (think: sepsis and meningitis). And, more importantly, it isn’t found in the throat. It’s found in the digestive tract and birth canals of pregnant women. So where are they gonna stick that super long cotton-swab on a stick? That’s right. My wife’s anus and vagina.

So I’m tapping out of this one.

I have a very special relationship with those parts of my wife’s body, and I’d rather maintain the illusion that I am the only adventurer to have wandered those magic forests.

Besides, we have weekly check-ups from this point forth.

I’ll make all those.

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It occurs to me that I have been hogging the spotlight.

Daddy’s My Mommy is a catchy title. It’s everything you need to know in one line. What’s this site about? It’s about a Daddy being a Mommy in the same way that Snakes on a Plane is about monkey-fighting snakes on a Monday-to-Friday plane.

But the truth is that I will not be Nathan or Reese’s Mommy. They have one of those already — their actual Mommy. And, unlike me, their actual Mommy has long pretty hair, a beautiful face, and two giant milk factories attached to her chest. More to the point, they’re living inside their Mommy’s body. When they start doing karate chops in the middle of the night, it’s their Mommy who feels them. And when they shove their way out into the world, it’s their Mommy’s va-jay-jay from which they’ll emerge.

I know, it’s 1960 1970 1980 1990 2000 2010 and gender roles are in flux. Dads are taking on more responsibility at home. Changing diapers. Doing dishes. Trying on their wife’s underwear when she’s not home. But the truth is that a Daddy in black lace panties is still a Daddy.

And a Mommy with a paycheck?

Still a Mommy.

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