My second son is a Boob Man. If they had a Boob-a-holics Anon. meeting for newborns, I’d be forced to take him. I’ve spent at least 60 of the last 72 hours with my titties hanging out and flapping in the breeze. And no, they are FAR too large now to flap. I had no idea how freaking scarily huge boobs get AFTER birth.

Here’s a sample conversation between The Baby and I (such a lack of sleep should be evident here):

Me: ‘I gotta pee.’

Him: ‘BOOOOOOOOOOOOOBBBBBBBBBB!’

Me: ‘That’s what you said 16 hours ago when I first mentioned that I had to take a pee.’

Him: ‘BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBBBBBBBBB!’

Me: ‘Please? I’ll buy you a Wii! Hell, I’ll buy you TWO Wii’s.’

Him: ‘BOOOOOOOOOOOOOBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBYYYYYYYYYYY!’

Me: ‘Fuck. Dave, hand me the catheter. Again.’

I prayed and prayed for this baby: the one who would eat happily from my breast without whining, complaining, and making me feel like a total failure as a parent (Ahem, BEN.) And I got him: spitting image of his father and all.

I guess the lesson to be learned here is the miracle you pray for may not always be the one you receive. And seriously, although my nipples may be cracked and bleeding and my tits rock hard and painful, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Life is sweet, Baby.