Daisy cooks, too.

Now, I know Violet has been the resident recipe poster, but I can get down with some cooking too. Violet asked me to share a few little tips and tricks that I’ve shared with her, so here you go..

I have great eaters. I really can’t complain, they will eat just about anything. Why? Not sure. Is it luck? Did I expose them to different foods when they were young, via my eating habits & breastmilk? Who knows. Maybe a good combo of both. Even with my great eaters, one of which (Diva) lists raw broccoli as one of her favorite foods, I still like to sneak in even MORE vegetables than they would normally eat.

Funny story, when Diva & Intuitive were about 2 or so, we were grocery shopping, strolling through the produce section, in fact. Diva begins a full on tantrum because she thought I didn’t put broccoli in the cart. Can you imagine this little pig-tailed girl, screaming her little brains out because she thought that mean old mommy DIDN’T get broccoli? The laughter coming from the other shoppers was pretty excellent when they realized that she was yelling for broccoli.

Anyways, “hiding” veggies in meals isn’t a new concept. There are cookbooks written on the subject. These are just some of the things that I’ve done.

Making spaghetti? Using jar sauce? Good shit, go for it. Whenever I make it, I will use a large grater and grate a few carrots, some squash, zucchini, finely cut spinach. Dump the jar of sauce in a big saucepan and dump the veggies in, simmer it all while your pasta is cooking. The veggies will cook down, and be completely unnoticed by even the pickiest eaters. My kids KNOW I do this, and couldn’t care less!

Tacos? Grate some of the same veggies into the meat while you’re cooking it. Same concept as the sauce, noone will notice.

Has your kiddo said no to baby food? Is she ready for the real stuff? Don’t worry. I’m sure you have 8 million extra jars of baby food sitting around, so USE them for your cooking. Dump a jar of carrots into your spaghetti sauce. Any veggie, really. Have some fruit ones? Make your kiddo some PLAIN oatmeal, and put some in the oatmeal.

Sneaking good stuff in is easy. It’s easy, and no one will ever know.

You’ll probably feel kinda bad ass for pulling a fast one on your family.

Any other ways you guys sneak some good stuff in? Let us know!

-Daisy

I’m at “that table.”

I’ve always enjoyed dining out – and why the hell not? Someone else cooks and cleans, and even brings the food right to your table; all you have to do is pay them! I think it’s a sweet deal. I’ve been dining out regularly all my life.

Tonight, Buddy and I met our best friends, The Gonzalez Family, for dinner at our usual haunt. Halfway between our homes, this place is situated at the perfect spot. This joint sports a yummy, family-style Italian menu, and the portions are big enough for even my voracious appetite. We’ve been going here for years. If memory serves me, I even went to this restaurant for my 21^st birthday (although that’s a hazy blur of Amaretto Sours). The Gonzalez Family has been in our lives since we were 18. They have a little baby, too, who is 7 weeks older than Pterodactyl. For the ten years or so that we’ve known The Gonzalez Family, we’ve been meeting at this restaurant for dinner almost every month.

Until now. Now I’m at “that table.” You know which one I’m talking about; “that table” with the loud kids (baby babble or angry screaming – these two munchkins know just one decibel.) “That table” with the food mysteriously flying through the air. “That table” covered in toys and cardboard books, which also happen to be covered in formerly airborne food. “That table” that childless patrons stare at in disgust, and request to be moved away from.

I don’t blame them for wanting to move to a table far, far away from us. When I was childless, if a hostess tried to sit me next to “that table,” I would immediately request a different section of the restaurant. I certainly didn’t want my meal disturbed, and I understand that other people don’t, either.

Mommy Gonzalez and I were talking about trying to find a “family-friendly” restaurant in the same area for future meet-ups, since it appears that our days enjoying fine dining are numbered. The problem is that I hate those restaurants. See, I love my kid and my nieces and nephews, but in those places, you’re surrounded by other people’s kids. That drives me nuts. And I hate the food at “family-friendly” chains. They’re over-processed, fattening, and pretty bland. It seems that my options are to resume eating at high-quality establishments while ruining other people’s meals, or to give in to the need to take my kid to a place where loud children are expected and tolerated.

We try to hush the Pterodactyl. We honestly do. Buddy and I are more firm than most parents I see attempting the same feat. Anyone who’s ever had a one year old knows that they’re feisty and independent, and if they have something to say, they’re going to say it at whatever volume they deem best. Needless to say, our “shhh”s amounted to jack shit.

How did this evening end? Mommy Gonzalez and I were on the floor behind the table playing with the (overtired and bored) babies, while Buddy and Daddy Gonzalez enjoyed normal adult conversations in their chairs. That was the final straw. We were ON THE FLOOR of a NICE RESTAURANT because our children were getting restless in their high chairs. Fortunately, our table was in the corner, and the only people who could see us being so tacky were at the table next to us, full of young, childless 20-somethings. (Sigh. I used to be them.)

I refuse to set foot in a Cici’s Pizza or something that urbane, but my crystal ball tells me that four or five years in the future, I may have to eat those words. In the interim, I guess we’re going to have to make the hour-and-a-quarter drive to one another’s houses to visit with the Gonzalez Family, since it seems that there are no “kid-friendly” restaurants at the half-way mark.

Because I’m at the point now that guzzling $50 in gas is preferable to being “that table.”

Celebrity Parents

Celebrity culture has always been somewhat of a twatwaffle to me. I don’t get into the drama; I don’t understand the hysteria. I don’t follow Perez Hilton’s blog. For all intents and purposes, I think celebrities are a bunch of middle class morons who happened to fall upon fame and wealth because they were either a) favored with big tits or b) can make themselves cry on cue. (Daisy and I are blessed with both of these attributes. Where are our millions?) At some point in their journey from mediocrity to internationally irrelevant, someone issued them all (collectively) a license for weirdness.

I didn’t used to mind the weirdness. Tom Cruise wants to put his money in a tax shelter and call it religion? Fine. Follow that up with a critique of psychology as a legitimate medicine practice? He’s an asshole, but I didn’t give him enough credit to care. Fergie wants to pee-pee in her pants without a Huggies, then shower in champagne to cover it up? Have fun! But then these weird-ass movie stars decided to tell the world how to parent. That’s when I became annoyed.

First, we had Mayim Bialik telling us that we need to breastfeed our kids until they’re five. (Anyone else think of the movie Grown Ups when you hear that?!)  January Jones, of Mad Men fame, wants you to eat your own placenta after you deliver your afterbirth. (And I know that in some less civilized cultures, that’s acceptable, but I’m a middle class American. We don’t cannibalize our extraneous organs.) Now, Alicia Silverstone wants us to feed our children like we’re pigeons by chewing our food and spitting it into the waiting infant’s mouth. Oh, hell no.

Here’s my problem: for one, parenting is a completely individualistic practice. No two mothers are alike, and no two children are alike. Prescribing any parenting practice is risky business (haha, Tom Cruise joke!) because methods that worked in one family may fail in another, and who will the failing family blame? The person who offered the advice in the first place. Not a wise idea if your income is based on your likability. My other problem with this celeb-mommy-culture is that too many people put these assholes on a pedestal. For these people, anything a favorite celebrity spews from her mouth is scripture. Cameron Diaz wants me to exfoliate with llama fetus eyeballs? Sounds great! Jack Black suggests I huff Dorito Cheese dust to make my hair grow longer? Yum! So when the Hollywood-types tell you that you should cover your kid in olive juice every day to prevent AIDS, some ignorant imbecile will take that to heart and buy a Costco-sized jar of olives.

Weirdo celebrity parents: keep your strange-as-shit thoughts to yourself. If you want to name your kid Pilot Inspektor or Jermajesty, be my fucking guest. No skin off my back. But to promote your strange (and possibly harmful) parenting tactics to your unassuming, impressionable fan base is wrong. You’re fucking with a child’s well-being when you tell his parent to eat a lock of his hair every year on his birthday, or whatever unusual shit you do with your children. Just like with politics, Hollywood Freaks, keep your nose out of shit you don’t understand, and stick to acting/singing/slutting.

Picky Eaters and Why I Refuse to Raise One

Over the course of the past couple of years, I’ve become hyper-aware of what I eat. I know that seems so trite, but in mainstream American culture, food is such a social and psychological medium that we tend to take our meals – and where they come from – for granted. It all started when I watched Food Inc. while pregnant. I think my hormones made me a bit psycho, but I couldn’t handle eating non-organic animal products for a while. A little bit of crazy remains, and I try to only feed Pterodactyl organic animal products (although I’ve loosened up on the fruits/veggies a bit). Recently, I’ve viewed some other food-related documentaries that caused me to give pause to the quantity and quality of fruits/veggies I eat, and how I perceive food.

I can’t stand picky eaters. I apologize to those of you who maintain specific diets, but I consider food a first-world adventure. I’ll try anything – all kinds of sushi, tripe, steak tare-tare, foie gras, strange fruits and veggies – you name it, I’ll eat it. I believe that picky eaters are depriving themselves of not only cool culinary experiences, but some important aspects of their nutrition. There are a few small children in my life who I consider to be “picky.” Their entire diets consist of “kid foods” like mac & cheese, chicken nuggets, and hot dogs. I even have a good friend who is of the fussy variety. She has about seven or eight meals that she eats, and she rotates them regularly. My birthday dinners at the ceviche bar or sushi restaurant gave her zero meal options. I feel sad for her taste buds.

Now that Pterodactyl is learning to eat table foods, I’m making it my mission to encourage her palate. At ten months old, she’s already experienced tofu, seafood, tabouli, hummus, stuffed grape leaves, and all manner of vegetables. Daisy offered me an excellent piece of advice many weeks back that I would like to reiterate here: she told me to feed my child what I feed Buddy and me, and over time, the kid would learn to like the foods we do. Boy, have I taken that to heart! My kid already gets down with some curried tofu over jasmine rice, and just about cleans her plate. (If you include the food that winds up on the floors, walls, and inside her diaper, then her plate is most certainly cleared.) So far, it’s working. Pterodactyl doesn’t discriminate; she’ll eat whatever I put in front of her. I hope that this trend continues, and much like her cousins Intuitive, Diva, and Handsome, she will get down with some sushi when she’s old enough.

I’ve seen persnickety eaters grow out of their preferences. My little brother was a Tyrannosaurus Rex. As a child, he would eat only meat and potatoes, and leave the veggies to me and my mother. Now that he’s a fitness-conscious adult, he has widened his repertoire to include most of the veggies we consider American staples. He gives me hope for the two little picky-eaters in my life. Maybe they will grow to be adults who enjoy a wide variety of foods; maybe their health won’t suffer at the expense of their finicky choices.

Buddy and I are going to start juicing as soon as our new gizmo arrives from amazon.com. Part of this dietary change means that we’ll keep fruits and vegetables in the house that we normally wouldn’t, like kale and beets. While I’m thrilled that we’re going to be making better dietary choices for ourselves, the real fun will be introducing Pterodactyl to unique flavors she hasn’t yet experienced, and cultivating her taste buds. Let’s hope that, in adulthood, she will enjoy a variety of foods, from the stinkiest, moldiest French cheeses to the spiciest Indian curries available. If that is indeed the case, I know it will be a result of what I’m feeding her now, and the amazing advice her Auntie Daisy gave us.

Some of our favorite kid stuff

Between the two of us, we have four kids. Fortunately for Violet, Daisy’s earlier ride on the Baby Train allowed for product recommendations with some savior-fare when it came time for Violet to breed. We thought we’d give you all the benefit of our experiences. Keep this list handy, as they’re excellent products which might make for valuable baby-shower gifts.

*Disclaimer: All of these products were purchased by Daisy and Violet for the sole intent of making baby and Mommy happy, with no ulterior motives nor incentives on the part of the producer. Any recommendations are made in good faith. Neither Daisy and Violet, nor the manufacturers, are responsible if this shit doesn’t work out for you like it did for us.

Baby Wearing:
Violet: Holy crap. Thank you, Daisy, for gifting your pouches to me at my baby shower. These things are a life-saver! In those first few weeks of Motherhood, I was able to nurse Pterodactyl in them. I was able to wear her and get housework done. The design of the pouch, as opposed to that Baby Bjorn shit, is conducive to sleeping, sitting up, and when the kid is old enough, back-wearing. It supports baby’s noggin in those first weeks of slinky-neck. Even to this day, I can go out in public wearing her to prevent grimy old people from touching my child. On occasion, I even “wear” her to sleep when she’s being extra fussy. The Rockin’ Baby Pouch (www.rockinbabysling.com) is as functional as it is pretty. Our shared pouch is black and white flowers on one side, and all black on the other (reversible!) side, but they come in all sorts of pretty hues. They’re adjustable, so they grow with baby, from cradled position to sitting up to wearing on the back. Even my massive, 6’3 husband wore the baby on the largest setting when she was a newborn. Rock on, Rockin’ Baby!

NIPPLES!:
Daisy: Lansinoh saved my life and boobs. The little purple tube full of happy goop was a balm of love, comfort, and all things good. Chafed, cracked, hurting boobies will love you for liberally applying this stuff. Great point about the gunk is the fact that you don’t have to wash it off to nurse – it’s safe for baby. I would apply a good amount after nursing, even when I wasn’t chapped or cracked – kept “them” healthy and moisturized. Wonderful, wonderful stuff. I also used the Lansinoh disposable nursing pads. They are thin; completely invisible under thin bras and t-shirts, and WOW are they absorbent. Lansinoh has no clue who I am, and they certainly didn’t provide me with anything, I just love them and have fond memories of the comfort their products brought to my udders. (Like, uh, not looking like I was perpetually in a wet t-shirt contest) (www.lansinoh.com)

Baby Feeding:
Violet: Trust me when I say that I’ve run the gamut of baby bottles. When Daisy recommended the Playtex Drop-Ins, I registered for every variation and portion of this bottle set. Unfortunately, Pterodactyl didn’t take to them, and collapsed the nipple. My big brother had used Dr. Brown’s bottles with his two kids, so I tried those next. Let’s just say that there are still some bottle innards somewhere in the bottom of my garbage disposal. Since I don’t have a Ph.D in baby bottle mechanics, I scrapped Dr. Brown’s pretty quickly. I tried the little bottles that came with my Medela, but they turned my kid into The Exorcist, yakking boob milk/formula across the house with projectile aptitudes. That’s when I found Born Free (www.newbornfree.com). Holy smokes, those are fantastic. We started with the glass bottles, and haven’t changed since! The babe couldn’t collapse the nipple. The (uncomplicated, easy-to-use) innards kept her gas-free, and glass is not only environmentally sound, but microwave safe, too.

Diaper Buying
Daisy: Diaper delivery: http://www.amazon.com. Can I get an “AMEN”??? I had three in diapers at once. My kids were good eaters. Due to the fundamental hypothesis of “What goes in must come out”, we went through diapers faster than you can imagine. By the time Handsome was about 4 months old, he, Diva, & Intuitive were all in the same size diaper. That was a happy day for Daisy. I ordered the mega sized box off of Amazon, and when I was a good girl, my mom would send me some as a present. Diapers as presents. Who would have thought that would be the best gift she could send?

Online Shopping:
Violet: I’m addicted to savings. I have a coupon binder, and religiously plan my grocery list to maximize my savings. Now that you know what a crack-head I am, take heed: my favorite sites are the discount ones! I love http://www.zulily.com and http://www.totsy.com. Both sites feature hoity-toity (that’s for you, Daisy’s Ma!) outfits and toys that a humble middle-class person like me would never otherwise be able to afford. The shipping isn’t as fast as, let’s say, Amazon.com, but at these prices, it’s worth the 2-4 week wait.

Corralling Your Kid:
Daisy: The One Step Ahead Superyard was such a great buy. So great in fact that I bought two of them and some extenders, to make a Super-Superyard. I was lucky enough that the layout of two houses I lived in while I needed to wrangle the kids was conducive to having the Superyard around furniture and between walls and furniture. I made a whole secure area and was able to contain kids and toys in a safe environment. Until the kids learned how to chuck their toys over the walls of the jail, anyways.
(Violet edit: I bought this shit, and it was fantastic. Even though my stubborn little Pterodactyl refuses to be caged anymore, the Superyard still serves a purpose: Buddy disconnected the “hexagon” and placed the fencing up against our home entertainment center. Now, the kid can’t turn the volume all the way up on the receiver or whack the PS3.)

Car Safety:
Violet: I know this comes as no surprise, but I absolutely love Pterodactyl’s Britax Marathon 70. It is secure as shit, comfortable for her, and it’ll grow with her until she’s a forward-facing 70 pounder. We never did the infant carrier system; we took her home from the hospital in that car seat. (At 5 lbs, 11 oz, thank you very much!) For those of you like Daisy who enjoy accessorizing, you can buy different seat covers to change up the pattern. Read the safety statistics (http://babyproducts.about.com/od/carseats/tp/topconvcarseats.htm) before you make a choice, but I’m sure you’ll agree that this car seat is the shit.

Cups That Won’t Ruin Your Life:
Daisy: Once my crew was done with sippy cups, I bought a never-ending supply of The First Years Take & Toss cups with lid & straws. Those things are amazing, and pretty indestructible for being labeled as “Disposable” OR “Reusable”. My kids STILL use them, without the lids & straws. They hold 10oz, and can be washed on the top rack in the dishwasher. Fun colors, easy to hold, easy to clean, and hard to spill. Those lids clamp on tight.

So what about you? What baby stuff has made your life easier? Please comment and share the joy with other Mommies. =]

 

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Why I Quit Breast-Feeding…and that’s OK!

Being Daisy’s Mommy-Apprentice, I knew from the time the sixth pregnancy test showed positive that I was going to breastfeed. I registered for nursing covers and nipple creams. I bought a $300 Medela pump. When my friends who had babies during my pregnancy fell off the Boobie Train, I scoffed. Determination of will, Ladies! I thought. Stick to it! I had learned though the 23871 baby books I read and frequent conversations with my heterosexual life partner that Breast Milk is the Best Milk, and I was damned if my kid was going to be some formula-feeding half-wit. Oh no.

When my kid finally came barreling out of my baby-maker, my world turned upside-down. Latching was difficult, but with the help of various Lactation Consultants (who were grabbing my boobs like I was in a Cancun Wet T-Shirt Contest), we eventually got her on. Hurdle number one, conquered. When the kid wound up in the NICU, the hospital gave me the Spawn of Satan pump to extract some breast milk for my jaundiced munchkin. Fine – I’ll endure some woosh woosh for a couple days. But then, the proverbial shit hit the fan (and no, I’m not talking about projectile baby poop.)

Home with my baby, the struggle to breastfeed continued. In her first few weeks of life, I nearly lost my shit. Post-Partum Depression was rearing its ugly head, but I was going to fight it. No more trips to my shrink, who had pre-pregnancy Violet on a variety of happy pills. This baby was going to receive unadulterated boob milk!

Until my father almost died. The phone call came after yet another sleepless night, pleading with my newborn to feed and sleep. He was in the hospital and in a coma, and there was nothing I could do but sit and wait. With my coping skills stretched unreasonably thin, I battled two demons – that of lowered milk supply, and the depression which was threatening my stable mindset. Two days later, my husband was downsized (even though his bitch of a boss knew very well that he just had a baby!) With Daddy in the hospital and Hubby out of work, I knew I was battling an uphill climb.

I relinquished and went to my shrink. First thing out of her mouth was: “They’ve reclassified your anti-depressants. They are now a Class 4, and they will most certainly enter your breastmilk and effect your baby. If I put you back on them, do you promise to stop nursing?”

My world was crumbling. All I wanted to do was breastfeed my child. We were making gains in the latching/milk supply department. There was a future for my boobs. But my doctor was asking me to choose my mental health over my child’s nutritional health, and I couldn’t handle that shit.

Daisy, my wonderful, rational Siamese Twin, talked me off my metaphorical ledge. She reminded me that a happy mother is a happy baby, and that baby formula is quite nutritious and not detrimental to baby’s development. A depressed, crazy mother, however, was. For the next two days, I pumped and pumped and pumped so my kid could enjoy as much Mommy Juice as possible before I began my meds. The first time I put a pill in my mouth and swallowed, I cried. Ultimately, my kid received breast milk for the first month of her life, between my boobs and my pumped supply.

Switching to formula was the best decision I have made for my family thus far. With Buddy staying home with Pterodactyl, it is much easier on both of us for her to be a formula baby. My regiment of anti-depressants has stabilized my brain, and I’m a happy Mommy. I don’t think my kid would have benefitted from my breast milk if it were diluted with tears, do you?

When people give me shit for choosing to take my kid off the boob, I don’t even flinch. I know it was the best choice for all of us. My kid is brilliant, sweet, and (just to squelch those stereotypes about formula babies) svelte. Mommy is balanced out, and Buddy isn’t calling Daisy up at all hours of the night asking her to comfort and fix crazy Violet anymore. So to all the holier-than-thou breast-feeders (not all breast-feeders, just those with rude comments about my family) who condemn us formula moms for feeding our kid from a bottle, all I can say is: Go Fuck Yourselves.

Epilogue: My daddy is just fine, now. Two scary surgeries and a long recovery later, he’s back to his normal self. =]

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Daisy’s breastfeeding escapades

By the time I reached the “Extremely Pregnant” phase of my first pregnancy, I decided that breastfeeding would definitely be in my future.  I asked the only person that I personally knew had breastfed for some advice. First words out of her mouth, “It hurts.”  Now, my extreme naïveté sure matched my “extreme” pregnant self. I had expected rainbows, cotton candy, and joy, yet… “It hurts” was what I got.

Quickly followed by, “When they try to tell you it doesn’t, they’re lying.”

She followed that up by saying something along the lines of, “The only thing that saved me for those first 6 weeks was clenching my teeth and reciting the alphabet, and usually by the time the alphabet was done, I wouldn’t want to throw the baby across the room.”  Now, did you just say the basic alphabet, or did you add the whole “next time won’t you sing with me” bit?  Eventually, we got to the rainbows, cotton candy, and joy. Bonding, yadda yadda, sweet, yadda yadda, free, yadda yadda. I never really got to use her advice with the results of that first pregnancy.

Instead, I got to become well acquainted with a human torture device, or as “they” like to call it, “a hospital grade pump.” Spawn of Satan, I say. If you enjoy feeling like Elsie, hanging out in the barn, with her udders on display, I would recommend you invest in one. Now, it did get the job done and my premature twin girls feasted on “booby milk” (hey, only the most accurate of terms here.) for about 8 months before the infernal thing got thrown out the window. (Or returned to the hospital. The rent on that thing was expensive.) Once Diva and Intuitive started  needing me to pump about 60 oz. each per day, my mammary glands protested and went on strike.

Fast forward, albeit not very far in the future, to my son’s birth. Come hell or highwater, I was gonna breastfeed this one until the cows came home; straight from the “tap”, or my name wasn’t Mommy.  Where was I? Oh yeah, birth of child number 3. The two older ones were about 19 months old. I really couldn’t fathom getting up in the middle of the night 87 times and dragging my ass downstairs to make a bottle. I also couldn’t fathom telling two 19 month olds to “sit tight” and not suffocate their newborn brother while I ran to make bottles 87 times a day. Breastfeeding, it would be. It had to be.

So, on that lovely evening that Handsome was wrangled out of me, as soon as the nurses let me, I threw him on the boob. 12 hours later, I was happy I remembered the advice I had recieved some 2 years earlier. I used my judgement and made sure to add “now you know your A, B, C’s, next time won’t you sing with me” at the end. I got a few strange looks from nurses when they’d walk in our hospital room and find the newborn suckling and the “new” mom mouthing the ABC’s. I never filled them in on my secret, I’d rather have them think I was a little crazy.

Sure as sugar, 6 weeks or so flew by, and I was finally able to stop singing myself into submission. After the initial shock to my, uh, lady lumps, everything was smooth sailing. I fed that child whenever, whereever, for FREE! The mall, Disney World, P.F. Changs, it was all good. Surprisingly, I only had a few obnoxious comments. Usually from half-dressed 20 something girls. Listen, chickie, if I can see your thong and half of your ass when you’re in your seat at dinner, don’t fuck with me about feeding my kid, ok?

17 months later, Handsome was all done. He was ready for the bright lights of big boy cups and milk from a jug, instead of from my jugs. My mom, “The Mayor” spent the first couple of nights with us after we weaned, and by golly, when she went in to comfort him when he woke up at his normal nursing hours, he just went back to sleep. The day we stopped breastfeeding was the first night he slept through the night.

With my crew well into childhood, I miss the newborn stage. Does that mean I want to pop out 75 more little darlings? Nah, not at this point. But, uh, if you have a newborn I can borrow for a few hours, let me know. I promise, I’ll keep my boobs to myself.

Oh, and if you’re wondering if breastfeeding can be fun, just ask Violet about the time that I showed her how far breastmilk can fly. Her bathroom mirror was never the same. Don’t let her try to convince you that she didn’t do it when she was breastfeeding Pterodactyl.

-Daisy

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.