Here I Am, All Hopped Up

The devil is a 3 week growth spurt.

One day you're nursing your baby every 2-3 hours and the next day you feel like punching your dearest husband, breaking out a can of formula, and eating an entire package of Oreos.  

Oreos.  The entire package.  So good.

And cookie dough.  

And blueberry bread. 

And peaches, for good measure.

And there's still ice cream  in the freezer, if that's not enough.  

Oh, and let me tell you, it's not enough.

While she's nursing for comfort, you're hitting up the online mommy forums (is this normal infant behavior?!?) and attempting a self-inflicted sugar coma... anything to put you out of this glorious misery.

But then, her eyes!!  They are so precious!  And that feathery hair!  Until you remember that your nipples are on fire because you somehow burned through 200 tablets of ibuprofen and there's no way you can get dressed, let alone make it to the drugstore for more.

Yet, you don't feel bad because it's been 9 months of discomfort and an actual baby emerging from your actual body without so much as a Tylenol!!  

When suddenly, you realize that this is a Twilight Zone of trauma and awesomeness and that you're also hanging out with a really cute baby.

And do you really want it to end?

Meanwhile, all she's thinking is, "Where's the mom boob?"