Squirmy

My little one is quite the mover and shaker. Literally. Anybody who's held her would probably agree that she's sort of a fidgety little booger. I think that probably goes hand-in-hand with her curious, I-don't-want-to-miss-a-thing nature. She just can't help but keep that little body in constant motion for most of the day.

Only problem (well, other than not getting enough sleep)? She has to feed 8-12 times a day. And that requires her to be attached to a certain mammary glad of yours, truly.

See this tiny, adorable foot?

That was a trick question. It ain't no foot. It's a launch pad. A catapult, if you will. She mounts that little sucker (and sometimes its mate) against any and all surfaces available in order to gain traction, and then--wham! There her whole body goes. Along with said mammary gland.

By the time I'm done breastfeeding, somebody's gonna have to haul my breastesses up from the floor, just like in those funny Hallmark cards with those old, crotchety ladies. 'Cause I can't imagine my two girls are going to make it out of this unscathed.

Good thing my beloved first born is so darn cute.

P.S. Sorry brothers. And brother-in-law. And father-in-law. And any other male that might perchance be reading this and now has to live with the pain of burned retinas. Sometimes a nursing mother just has to talk (or type) about her breastesses.