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“That’s just the way it is…things will never be the same…”

1 May

I kind of mourned Pterodactyl’s first birthday.

I know. I’m crazy. (Don’t worry. I take pills.)

I saw it as this “finish line;” the end of her infant days. Don’t know why, but I had this irrational fear that her 366th day of life, she’d stand up, start walking, reading Proust, and analyzing logical syllogisms used in the current political spectrum.

Two weeks have now passed since we crossed that threshold, and guess what? No Proust! No Ad Hominem fallacies! No walking, as a matter of fact! Just a couple new teeth to mark the transition. But there is, indeed, a transition.

I’m learning not to fear the growth and mourn the passing of a bygone phase. Instead, I’m looking forward to what each day brings. Will she pick up a new word? A funny new behavior? There are so many things to look forward to with this child of mine. Every day she surprises me.

This is not to say that I don’t look at pictures of her as a newborn and miss the days when she could sleep on my chest for hours; when even a train horn blaring “Single Ladies” could not wake her. I definitely do that. But I’m noticing that the sadness and trepidation I felt about her first birthday has subsided, and been replaced by excitement and antici – *beat* – pation. Every day, Pterodactyl teaches me something new. Every day, she discovers something and shows me a different way of perceiving my everyday world. Instead of fearing the change, I’m celebrating it.

Have you ever found yourself sad to say “goodbye” to a childhood phase? How did you cope? 


Fun With Texting: 4/16/2012

16 Apr

Pterodactyl stole her Mommy’s phone and was text messaging her Auntie Daisy… She also called me twice! Love that girl!


Fuck Birthday Parties

16 Apr

This will be a snazzy little double post, where Violet & I share our thoughts on Pterodactyl’s birthday party.. Sorry that we’ve been a bit quiet, sometimes life gets in the way, and until we get paid the big bucks for spewing crap all over the internets… Well, ya know, we have other obligations.

Now, on with the show!


We had Pterodactyl’s first birthday party this weekend. I have two observations to make:

  1. Daisy is a life-saver, and it wouldn’t have happened without her. (Or it would have, but I’d be up in a tree, rocking back and forth, rattling a bottle of Xanax.) (Hey, Pterodactyl is like 1/8th mine, no big thing! -Daisy)
  2. I’m never, ever, ever doing this shit again.

We decided to hold the child’s birthday party at a park. (“We” is a generic pronoun here, since the Army decided not to release Buddy, and he missed his daughter’s first birthday party. Assholes.) The logic behind that decision was two-fold: first, I didn’t have to clean a park like I’d have to clean my house, and second, the assortment of “big kids” in attendance would be entertained by the playground, whereas my house isn’t “big kid” friendly.

Yesterday morning, Daisy loaded her crew into the car at o-dark-thirty and made the two-hour drive to my neck of the woods. My saving grace, she knew that I’d need an extra set of hands or five to make up for Buddy’s forced absence. I decided to run some errands before her arrival so we could maximize our time together. On my way to the store, I drove past the park where the party was going to be held, and found some coke whore lovely lady (Daisy edit) and her kid parked under our pavilion. I pulled over and went into the park to inform her that I reserved that space. An argument ensued, and I had to drive my happy ass home, get the documentation, and return. Long story short, I didn’t make it to the store, and this bitch almost had a tightly-wound Birthday Mommy pounding the life out of her. Fortunately, Terry agreed to stand guard at the park while Daisy, the kidlets, and I took care of party business. ‘We went to the store and accomplished everything we were supposed to accomplish. (While Daisy was rendered useless carrying Pterodactyl around and kissing her, since I hadn’t seen her in MONTHS -Daisy) If Terry had to murder any would-be pavilion-thieves in the interim, I don’t want to know about it. (He didn’t. He was cold, though. -Daisy)

The party went relatively smoothly, except for my neurotic “GOTTATALKTOEVERYONEANDBETHEPERFECTHOSTESS” bullshit. Yes, Pterodactyl smashed a baby cake. Yes, our friends grubbed on pizza and soda and made small talk about teething. It was all very cute. I had the where-with-all to book an amazing photographer, Angel Event Photography, to capture the day, and Daisy thought ahead enough to videotape Pterodactyl’s birthday cake event for Buddy. Relatively speaking, the party was successful.

(Daisy here. In my birthday party experience, it went off without a hitch. The birthday girl hadn’t napped AT ALL and she didn’t have ONE breakdown. That is admirable for a little diaper dweller, in my EXPERT opinion. Auntie Daisy made sure to take her off on quiet walks every so often, hoping that it would help keep her calm. Seems like it worked. That, or the kid is a superhuman being that can turn on the people charm even through extreme tiredness. Diva, Intuitive, and Handsome were on excitement overload. There were SO many babies. They were in heaven. These kids are total baby lovers. (I think they have asked us 7 times since Saturday if we are going to have another baby. HA. If they agree to wake up in the middle of the night to feed the kid, SURE.)

Back to Violet.)


Except that this shit sucks.

My house is now a depository of party bags and tissue paper. There are new toys/books/clothes strung all over the place – I have a very generous, very giving set of friends, for whom I’m grateful. I have leftovers in the fridge that must be eaten, and I’m a bit “pizza-ed” out. The stress and exhaustion from the party compromised my immune system, and I’m coming down with something awful. It’s only a matter of time until Pterodactyl picks it up, too.

Daisy and I were discussing this phenomenon. She’s had her fair share of overwhelming kiddie parties, and knows the stress of this all too well. (Yeah, if I were to fill you all in on the politics and sheer HELL that was Diva & Intuitive’s 1st birthday party.. OY. Family issues and stress and I had just found out I was pregnant with Handsome. We’ll save that for another day -Daisy) While figuring out how to simplify this process in the future, we had a collective epiphany: we never have to do this for Pterodactyl ever again, and here’s why.

Every year, about this time, my city hosts the March of Dimes walk. You all remember from previous posts that Pterodactyl spent a few days in the NICU, and Intuitive and Diva had their own mailing addresses in a NICU for several weeks. (Only 8 days. For their gestational age and problems at birth, they bounced back very quickly. Thanks very much in part to the wonderful NICU nurses and staff. Sure felt like longer, though. -Daisy) The March of Dimes is a charitable organization that both Daisy and I feel strongly committed to. We decided that if we have to part with time and money every April, why not give back to that philanthropy, make a difference for thousands of premature babies, and teach our own children about charity, as well?

So we devised “The Plan:” next year, Pterodactyl’s birthday party will BE the March of Dimes Walk. Instead of presents, we’ll request donations to our March of Dimes team. (Because my friends are so generous that the charity will greatly benefit from my child’s second birthday.) In lieu of party favors, we’ll give each walker team tee-shirts. Instead of putting on pounds with cake and chips, we’ll shred them as we walk three miles around the prettiest part of my city. We’ll make sure the children understand the value of this organization (particularly the girls, who all got a little NICU action as newborns), and share the joy of philanthropy. Best part? I won’t kill myself over streamers and cake!

As The Irreverent Reptile reminded me, our culture is so materialistic that we expect children to have birthday parties, and we expect our friends and family to send gifts. That is NOT the message I want to send my kid. The best gift I have received (besides the child herself) was the amazing team of doctors and nurses who cared for her during her stay in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit, and this is my way of thanking them.

Daisy, again –

While Violet is exaggerating, and I really don’t feel like I did that much, I’m totally behind her idea for next year. Pterodactyl will enjoy the hell out of the day, party or no party. We will be doing out part to help babies like ours, and we will be spending time together. What’s better than that?



So, what do you think? Any funny party stories from you guys?

Vagina Vengeance, or: I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

22 Mar

I had the most horrific, gruesome vaginal delivery of anybody I know. What do you think?

The first day of FCATs (for you non-Floridians, that is the No Child Left Behind high-stakes test that Florida students have to take and pass to graduate), I felt the anxiety levels climbing. For the past several weeks, my obstetrician had been warning me about my escalating blood pressure levels, afraid that I would fall into the risky hypertension zone if I wasn’t careful. He wanted me to stay away from stress, red meat, horror films, etc. At 37 weeks pregnant, dealing with the stressors of getting the students rolling and fearing their plummeting scores was no picnic. By the end of the first day of testing, I had a massive headache, and I was especially swollen. After work, I stopped by my Obstetrician’s office to pick up some paperwork. Aware that my blood pressure had been climbing the past few weeks, I asked a nurse if she could quickly take my BP as a precaution. She told me that the office was closed, and to head across the street to the hospital’s Labor and Delivery ward. I followed her instructions. In the hospital, they tested my blood pressure for two hours and collected my urine to test (ew, gross, right? Keep reading; it gets worse.) Upon reading my scores, the OB on shift had me stay the night for further observation. And then another night. After about 72 hours of observing my vitals, one of the doctors in my practice told me that I had preeclampsia, also known as pregnancy-induced hypertension. As a result, she wanted to get the baby out of me ASAP before my astronomical protein levels climbed even higher, rendering me possibly comatose.

Like a whirlwind, I was moved from ante-partum to the labor and delivery unit, where the doctor broke my water and hooked me up to oxygen and a million other machines. The team started me on Pitocin to initiate contractions, and I was officially in labor. I had a magnesium sulfate drip thrusted into my veins. If you’ve never had “The Mag,” let me tell you something: it makes one feel like one has a nasty flu. Imagine being in labor with a fever and other flu symptoms. It sucks. It was a necessary evil, though, to prevent me from having a BP-induced seizure (which this epileptic is prone to.) Of course, when they shoved the catheter in me, that was just as pleasant as a spring day…or not. I will admit to being slightly amused watching the nurses empty out a milk jug of pee from under my hospital bed, and having no knowledge as to how it got there. But I’m just weird. Moving on…

Two hours later, I was dilated enough to receive an epidural. There was never a question as to whether or not I would have one; I’m no fucking hero. For the next eight hours, I labored painlessly as the epidural worked its magic. I even napped a little; good thing, because I would soon learn how much I needed that rest.

When the nurse told me it was time to push, the doctors eased up on my epi so I could feel the contractions. What they did not anticipate is that my kid wasn’t in the mood to be born, and after the first twenty minutes of pushing, the medicine wore off completely. I pushed and pushed and pushed for two hours. Two hours of unmedicated pushing. Nobody else among my friends and family pushed for that long. Moments before that final push, my kid turned sideways in my birth canal, and even though she was a teeny preemie, her exit caused a third-degree tear in my baby door. For those of you unfamiliar with the terminology, a third degree tear means that I was split from baby door to food dumpster. In other words, there was a brief window of my life when I only had two holes, not three.

The nurses put my brand new baby on my chest for skin-to-skin bonding, and I remember looking down from my kid long enough to see my OB stitching me up with a length of thread longer than my body. Seven months later, I required additional surgery to repair the disaster area that used to be my lady-parts; that’s how badly I tore. To add insult to injury, I pushed so hard and for so long that I blew a bunch of capillaries in my eyes, and every bit of white part was red for two weeks. Even my kid’s pediatrician made fun of me for that one. (She took one look at my eyes and said, “Rough vaginal delivery, huh?” Thanks, Bitch.) (Remember that episode of Family Guy where Stewie tries to crap in his diaper but blows the blood vessels in his eyes instead? Yep. That’s precisely how I looked.)

Doesn’t that sound horrendous? Gentlemen, doesn’t that make you glad you were blessed with a penis? Ladies, do you pity me? All that pain, all that pushing. Most of my friends who experienced vaginal deliveries pushed for anywhere from 15 to 45 minutes, just to put it in perspective.

And even though I had the worst possible vaginal delivery, I still would rather do that again than face major surgery to pull my kid out. My stitches did not require me to wear elastic-waist pants (just those delightful hospital mesh panties, of which I stole dozens.) While my recovery was painful as shit, it didn’t limit my mobility. My discomfort did not prevent me from holding my brand new child, as many other C-section moms I know experienced. I didn’t have to worry about resting her on my stitches while holding her in the rocking chair; I just made extra sure not to sit on her. The resulting surgery, seven months down the line, was a bitch. The preemptive medical work leading up to the corrective surgery was a bitch. It was also pretty rotten to hear my OB tell me that he’d rather I never deliver vaginally again. I decided, though, to fuck his recommendation and attempt a vaginal birth in the future, should Pterodactyl be blessed with a sibling one day. There is no way I’m voluntarily going through what my dear sister Daisy suffered, and she was among the lucky ones!

Tell us: what was your vaginal birth like?

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Picky Eaters and Why I Refuse to Raise One

3 Mar

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 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

29 Feb

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 ( 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!

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) (

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 ( 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: 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 and 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,, 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 ( 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!

26 Feb

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.

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