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Category Archives: pregnancy

Advice to (New) Mom-ttorneys


Recently a friend-of-a-friend asked me for some advice since she had just both passed the bar to become an attorney as well as found out she was pregnant.

I wanted to say “congratulations” to the baby and “oh, I’m sorry to hear” to the bar passage – but instead, I came up with this list, which I hope will find its way to her somehow. I usually don’t do advice in my blog, because the only topics I’m really qualified to opine upon are either irrelevant (“don’t try to wax your boyfriend’s face”) or scientifically unsound (“you’ll get severe stomach cramps if you sleep in a crop top”). But because this woman is about to have a baby and become a work from home attorney – she wants to start up her own family law practice – I feel like I need to warn her pass on some words of encouragement.

Top 10 Advice for New Work-at-Home-Moms:

10. Flexible work arrangement = baby first, work second, and mom third. This is bad.

I’ve talked to a lot of WAHMs, moms with a flexible work schedule, moms who telecommute, and moms who own their own businesses, and they all agree – you end up working 24/7 when you work from home. Work begins to bleed and consume all of your waking moments that aren’t occupied by your offspring. Document review and phone calls are scheduled around nap times. Briefs are written late into the night, and police reports are read in bed, in the dark, so as not to awaken the ticking time bomb that is your child.

But you’ll burn out that way. What they say in parenting books about “setting boundaries” or “creating routines” needs to be applied to your work. Try something like “no work emails after 10pm” or, at least, “no squinting at client emails/texts at 2am in the dark while nursing.”

9. Expect your views on your career to change.

Assistant Branch Manager looks pretty good too.

It’s only a title.

I never expected to give up my practice, but I’ve pretty much all but done just that – and I’m much happier now than I have ever been.

Also – I never thought I would consider going back to work as a government attorney, but the temptation of great coworkers, a steady paycheck, and top benefits are extremely alluring once you have a family. Stability and good companionship are underrated when you’re a mom.

8. Also underrated when you’re a mom? Sanity.

bad day

Your attorney/mom friends will be much more sympathetic than this.

Solo practice can be very lonely, and at the same time, so can motherhood. Although I often think “ain’t nobody got time for dat,” I find myself infinitely recharged after spending time with my friends, especially attorney friends who can relate to my complaints about judges or clients or baby DAs.

Also, I used to think mom groups were dumb. I don’t know why I thought that; I just did. I now love spending time with a select group of mom friends because, again, they know exactly what I’m going through. As a new mom/new attorney, you’ll need that support from people who’ve been there, done that.

7. Be selfish.

Which brings me to being “selfish” enough to take some time for yourself. Otherwise you’ll seriously go batsh*t crazy. Right now I’m blogging this from the parking lot in front of a Skate Depot because after a day where I took Tiny Boss to gymnastics and the children’s museum and was rewarded with only a 20-minute-nap all day, I could not spend one extra second with him anymore. As soon as his dad came home, I was out the door.

I did this even though I know my son prefers I stay home with him and not his dad. It’s a developmental age thing, I’m told.

I did this even though I know that if Tiny Boss wakes up, which he is wont to do, he’ll cry incessantly for me until, well, he stops and accepts the fact that Dad is the one who’s going to give him milk and lull him back to sleep to the sounds of the Imperial March hummed in baritone.

And do I feel a little guilty for not giving my son “the best,” or at least, what he wants? Yeah, I do feel a little bad. But mind over matter, I know he is fine, and so here I am, blogging to you fine folks in my car, using stolen wifi.

6. Write down all your ultimatums – and thrown them away.

hundredpercentYes, this includes things like breastfeeding, cosleeping, baby food-making, sleep training, and anything else that has to do with parenthood.

The number one lesson I’ve learned from being a mother – never say never. Your own flexibility and open-mindedness will surprise you. Have I thought about trying the cry-it-out method with my second, still unborn child? Yes, even though a year ago I was convinced Ferberizing a kid would turn her into a psychopath, or worse, Donald Trump. Will I do it to my second, still unborn child? Probably not. But still – never say never.

5. You can’t have it all.

Nope, you can’t have it all – there will be some things that you’ll give up, even if you think now that you’ll never do it. For me, it was working out regularly – as well as regular hair highlights and manicures. Nothing like pushing a human being out of your crotch in front of a room of strangers to rid you of most of your vanity!

4. Set realistic goals and expectations.

tumblr_inline_mpa7m7vTV51qz4rgp#5 and #4 kind of go together. In all honesty, the learning curve is steep for both lawyering and parenting. You’ll have self-doubts about your abilities at both. But you’ll be fine when it comes to the mom thing, at least.

3. Get help where you can. 

In the beginning, let others take care of you. I once read that lawyers have a hard time taking physical cues from their bodies because we become extraordinarily talented at making counterarguments – especially with ourselves – and also focusing on analyzing and interpreting facts rather than listening to how we feel. For new attorney moms, my advice is to make sure to say yes to the people who want to help – whether it’s to bring you food, or wash your dishes, or to watch the kid for a couple of hours so you can take a nap. Which brings me to . . .

2. Don’t be a control freak.


You don’t have the luxury of being a perfectionist in your work anymore when you’re a WAHM. I can’t stress this enough.

1. Ignore everything I just said. 

For one thing, everything I’ve just written about is much easier said than done. Also, everyone will give you advice, but you’ll mostly pave your own way by finding out what works for you.


Yes, mom-ttorney, you are awesome.

And lastly, and most importantly, you will be fine at being a mom, and somehow the lawyer part will work itself out. And trust me – at the end of each day, when you look at your baby for one more time before you go to bed and wake up in two hours to make sure she’s still alive/to feed her, you’ll know without a doubt that yes, it was all worth it.


Tale of Two Pregnancies and the Government Shutdown

I haven’t blogged in a while. I blame it on the government shutdown. You want to know what I’ve been up to while our elected officials are busy eating hazelnut chocolates and playing GTA V (which is what I’d do if I was furloughed)?

Well, for one, this:


Before you get all excited and tell me your potty training tips, I should disclose that I’m not actually potty training. I did think about starting potty training soon, which is why I bought this ridiculous Fisher-Price musical potty. Of course, it never got used for anything besides play because it was just too fun of a toilet. I mean, this thing lights up while making pretend-flushing sounds and exclaims “YAY!” as if you’ve just won an all-expense trip to the Bahamas for you and four of your girlfriends, no kids allowed.

Because the musical potty was so fun, it was never used as a potty but was instead slowly assimilated into Tiny Boss’ toy collection. Until that fateful day.

Seriously? I'm going to start using kid toilets. They're WAY better than ours.

Seriously? I’m going to start using kid toilets. They’re WAY better than ours.
Check out

I know. It’s my fault. I’m terrible about putting the diaper on Tiny Boss right away. But we’ve never had a changing table, which means I always change him on the bed . . . and the bed is just so comfortable . . . and what’s the harm in letting him roam free for a little bit anyways? He’s got to air out those nuts, right?


Found this when I looked up “funny testicles” in Google images. I’m hoping it’s Photoshopped. And you’re welcome.

No good deed goes unpunished. I’m trying to let Tiny Boss air out for his own comfort and instead he craps on my bed. But to my credit, I leaped up as best as a pregnant woman can do, grabbed him and plopped him on the Yay Toilet. He obligingly pooped a little –  just enough to make a mess in two spots instead of one.

So I ended up having to stick Tiny Boss in the playpen while I tried to clean the poop up as fast as I could before the dogs caught on that there was something exquisitely interesting and tasty on the bed. In my haste, I got poop on my pant leg, so the sheet-changing, potty scrubbing, and poop disposal were all done with one pant leg rolled up, West-coast style.

LL Cool J probably had poop on one pant leg too.

LL Cool J probably had poop on one pant leg too.

That was week one of the government shutdown.

Week two began with me rubbing baby shampoo all over my pregnant belly.

In my defense, take a look at this bottle from the good folks at Shea Moisture.


Did you see the Wash & Shampoo part? Yeah? Me neither!

Seriously. I saw “Argan Oil” and “Calm & Comfort.” Sounds good to me!

When I started to pour it out, I noticed the consistency was definitively not oily, but I thought, what the heck? Maybe it’s one of those oil creams or something. What’s an Argan anyways? A quick glance at the ingredients list didn’t help me figure out this was for washing hair either. I mean, this stuff is made from sugar beets, for crying out loud. That sounds like it’s way better for stretch marks than it is for cleaning your hair.

But alas, as I started rubbing it into my stomach, I realized it was most definitely not oil. I got up to pour some water on my stomach in the shower and of course at that very moment, Tiny Boss decides to step down from our mattress and slip, banana-peel-style, on a blanket on the floor and land face first.


10 minutes later, I’m still comforting him in the rocking chair all the while with a thick layer of shampoo underneath my shirt.

But at least I tried, right? I was so vigilant about oiling my stomach and preventing stretch marks the first time around. Now I’m lucky if I can even get some shampoo on there once a week or so. Which brings me to:

Pregnancy #1 vs. #2

First time pregnant: Prenatal yoga three times a week. Walking every day with the dogs.

This time pregnant: Does toddler wrangling count as exercise? Fighting with the dogs over food left on the counter.



First time pregnant: Doing kegels every day. I would try to squeeze them in (see what I did there?) whenever I was at a red light.

This time pregnant: Cursing myself every time I sneeze that I didn’t do more kegels.


First time pregnant: Waking up at 3am and cooking up a storm to satisfy intense hunger.

This time pregnant: Waking up at 3am, putting Tiny Boss back to sleep, feeling hungry, and going back to sleep. For two more hours.


First time pregnant: Meditating as part of my plan for a natural birth.

This time pregnant: Meditating so as not to strangle my spouse/kid/the lady in front of me at the grocery store with 16 items in the express lane.


First time pregnant: Gave up coffee, tea, and other caffeinated drinks.

This time pregnant: A little concerned about my caffeine intake and its effect on my unborn child; more concerned about how not having my morning coffee will affect my already-born child.


First time pregnant: Religiously doing kick-counts every night.

This time pregnant: Realizing right before I fall asleep that I haven’t done kick-counts, so instead trying to remember the last time she moved. Thinking I could get up and drink some more coffee if I really can’t remember the last time she kicked (kidding!)


So there you have it, folks. My life the past two weeks during the government shutdown. I blame Obama for the poop incident and the Republicans for the Argan oil shampoo, because I’m fair like that.

Someone’s Got To Go From This Bed


A couple of months ago, I decided we should upgrade our tiny Ikea sofabed mattress to “something better.” We had been sleeping on it directly on the floor with Tiny Boss since he was old enough to crawl and fall off the bed. Now my back was finally starting to ache as my pregnancy progressed, although it was mostly from being cramped into one corner while Tiny Boss occupied the center of the bed like a (tiny) boss.

“No more!” I declared. “We shall upgrade!”

The upgrade turned out to be a somewhat random Sealy foam mattress we picked up at Sears. Would we like the boxspring and bedframe for only $100 more and free shipping? Well, sir, what I would like and what is actually feasible are two entirely different things. Obviously, this man did not have kids.

We had to forego having a real bed, and settle for another mattress (albeit a larger, fluffier one) because Tiny Boss, who sleep-crawls all the time, would probably end up falling off it in the middle of the night, possibly hurting himself and, more importantly, waking up.


The purchase turned out to be a curse.

No, it’s not the “gassing off” of the foam mattress – even my pregnancy-sensitive nose can’t smell the fumes emitting from the foam material, something that is supposedly so toxic that they were rejected by those responsible for acquiring beds at NASA or something.

So what’s wrong with our mattress?

  • Every time my husband moves, the whole bed moves. Since I’m not from California, I automatically think we’re having an earthquake; Tiny Boss wakes up.
  • It’s so comfortable when I’m the only one in it, which just makes sleeping in it every night even worse.
  • It comes with an anti-mom curse. If Tiny Boss is sleeping in it already and I sneak in next to him, he’ll wake up. Doesn’t matter if it’s during a nap or at night, if he’s had a long day playing at the park or if he’s been dosed with Benadryl (kidding) – he’ll wake up.
  • What was “ultra firm” in the store turned out to be pudding-soft in our house when all three of us sleep on it at once.
  • The dogs really want to lay on it. They come in at 5am and stare at me, willing me with their big brown dog eyes to let them on the bed until I throw some pillows at them, and then they just lay on the pillows instead and make them smell bad.

There are some upsides to the purchase though. For instance, two years ago we had bought a set of queen sheets by mistake, and now we finally have a mattress that fits it!

The realization that one of us needs to be evicted from the bed came to me last night as I lay miserably on the hard, tiny crib mattress we had placed on the floor to buffer Tiny Boss’ frequent falls of the bed. I’m tired of not being able to stretch out fully. It’d be nice not to wake up with little feet in my face. And I can’t even remember the last time my boobs were fondled by adult hands.

Quite possibly THE BEST ONESIE I have ever seen. Source:

Quite possibly THE BEST ONESIE I have ever seen. Source:

So new resolution: I’m going to buy a toddler bed. I placed some on our shower registry so that I can use the 10% off coupon that comes in the mail for all the stuff that doesn’t get bought. Soon thereafter, we’ll transition Tiny Boss into his own awesome Cars or Dora toddler bed, which he’ll totally love sleeping in. And then I’ll get awesome sleep, right?

You can stop laughing now.

Note to those who have a “family bed” – when you go mattress shopping, insist on trying out all the mattresses on the floor, not on the box spring. Pull them off the frames yourselves if you have to! Then make sure everyone – mom, dad, kids – gets on the bed and rolls around for at least five minutes to get a good sense of how that mattress will work for you at home. You’ll thank me, even if the sales person doesn’t.

Fears With Having a Second Child

first child second child

I was talking with my OB the other day (who is so far my favorite doctor I’ve ever had, but ask me again after she delivers my kid) about how different carrying the second child is from carrying the first. I told her I felt a little guilty because this time around, I don’t even know what week of pregnancy I’m on unless I go online to find a due date calculator. She laughed and said that was normal.

“I was talking to a friend who said he noticed that his parents had tons of pictures of his older sister and barely any of him,” I further confided. “I’m really terrified that I’ll neglect the second one and she’ll grow up with some sort of complex.”

My doctor laughed. “My husband was the second child in the family and was adamant we be extra careful. We try to take pictures of number two, but the first one always manages to sneak into the picture.” I wondered if I should tell my friend that.

* * *

I grew up as an only child, so I had no idea what it was like to have a brother/sister that you loved/hated. I could only look at my friends and draw my own conclusions, such as:

For families with only two kids: if the girl is born first and then the boy is born second, they’ll both turn out really awesome. But if the boy is born first and the girl is second, then the boy will be a total weirdo but the girl will be awesome. (This one is based in part on my ex-boyfriend, who was totally lame but had an awesome younger sister, as well as my close girlfriends who had totally weird older brothers. Too bad I’m about to prove this theory wrong with my first born son and soon-to-be-born daughter!)

get along

There are also the things my friends have told me: The more kids the mom has, the dumber they get. All the smart genes get passed to the first couple of kids. (My friend who said this is the youngest of three).

And per my mom: No matter how many kids there are, the third kid is always the smartest kid. (What if there’s only two kids, mom?”)

Another friend shared this bit of wisdom, which I thought was interesting: The first child is a gift for your husband. The second child is a gift for your first child. The third child is a gift for yourself. (She summed this up by saying, “I have three kids and it’s the perfect number. One is cooking breakfast right now, the other is doing the dishes, and the youngest is folding clothes!” But two might be the perfect number for us – although I’ve learned through parenting to never say never.)

I'm almost as afraid as this kid. Almost.

I’m almost as afraid as this kid. Almost.

Then there are the many fears that have suddenly come up as I’m getting closer to my due date. Some of these anxieties are legit; others are simply because I’m batsh*t crazy. I’ll let you be the judge; here they are:

Fear #47: “what if I love one child more than another?” 


Fear #212: “what if the second one wants to sleep in bed with us too?”


But with TWO kids. One for mom, one for dad?

Fear #6: “what if they REALLY don’t get along?”

Fear #2,098: “what if she’s even harder to raise than Tiny Boss?”

Fear #874: “what if she ends up hating me?”

And the list goes on and on. I guess in the end, like all things parenting, you just do the best that you can and hope that they don’t turn out to be psychopaths. Or Miley Cyrus.


I’m not into slut shaming. I really am not. But I also don’t want my kid’s photos to permanently be in the spank bank of a bazillion dudes. Not that this particular picture necessarily would make it there.

What I’ve Learned From This Heat Wave

Pregnancy and heat waves go together as well as, say, toddlers and nap time. This is our second week of 100 degree weather here in LA, and I’m about to start stuffing my bra with ice packs.

No, not like this. Source:

No, not quite like this.

To deal with the heat the past few days without using the air conditioning too much, I’ve been alternately escaping to the coastal areas with my toddler as well as distracting myself by doing things like having lunch with friends I haven’t seen in a while. Neither turned out well.

Eating With the Enemy

First, lunch with a friend. Pro tip: when you’re pregnant, be sure you have lunch only with friends who have been pregnant themselves, or lived in close proximity with someone who has been pregnant, or have dedicated their lives to researching pregnant women. Do not lunch with anyone else, particularly perfectly fit gay men who never sweat, even if they have been among your closest friends for years now. Case in point:

Me: “Ok, Dan. I’m not super hungry, so you choose where we go.” Mistake #1.

He didn't even have the courtesy to at least be fat.

He didn’t even have the courtesy to at least be fat.

We head downtown, park in Pershing Square and get out of the wrong exit, which means we end up having to walk two extra blocks before getting to the hottest restaurant in downtown LA. And by “hot,” I don’t mean trendy-hot, I mean like doing-Bikram-yoga-wearing-a-garbage-bag-hot. Like you just made a pregnant woman walk two blocks in the noontime heat hot. And like no air conditioning hot.

Dan: “This place has the best salads!

What I say: “You know when I go to Jack in the Box, the person at the drive through window says ‘Hey, it’s you again!’ when she sees me?”

What I think: F* salads!

But whatever. I order the exact same salad he does.

While eating our food salads, I complain that we’re outside and there’s no air conditioning.

Me: “You know, when you’re pregnant, your basal temperature increases by about 10 degrees.” (Not true, except most definitely true in my case).

Dan: “Well, I don’t know anything about pregnant women.” He looks at my plate. “Other than they eat a lot!”

We ordered. the. exact. same. salads. Ok, so maybe I just ate mine faster.

But Dan is my best friend, and best friends are forgiven for pretty much anything, so we’re having lunch again in a couple of weeks, only this time I’m making him eat hamburgers while wearing a parka on a DTLA rooftop restaurant.

Tropical Shitstorm – not just on the drink menu at Islands Restaurant

Tiny Boss and I went to one of my favorite beaches so I – err, he – can cool off in the perpetually freezing Pacific ocean. He poops at 9am, right before we get there, so being the noob mom that I am, I think, “Great! He’s not going to poop again for hours! Let’s just put him in these awesome Speedo swimming trunks with the built-in diaper.

Maybe it was all the sand he ate, or maybe it was the hash brown I got from Jack In The Box (“Hey! It’s you again!”), but some time between running into the ocean, trying to steal other kids’ sand toys, and ignoring his adorable playdate, he took the mother of all dumps.


Would have been helpful.

I don’t know this though, so I decide to take his wet clothes off in the car, at which time a large piece of poop falls out of his trunks as I was pulling them down. Tiny Boss immediately, and efficiently, stomps on it and grinds it into the seat.

I look into his pants, and discover that it looks like someone’s mashed about half a dozen Reese’s peanut butter cups inside them. But that wasn’t the biggest problem, really. The biggest problem with pooping your pants at the beach (besides pooping your pants at the beach) is not so much the poop, but the sand.


I’m with Anakin on this one.

Sand gets everywhere. It turns your awesome swim trunks with the built in diaper into something akin to a skin-hugging cat litter box, only with not enough litter to neutralize the turds, so you get a nasty combination of poop, sand, and poopy sand clumps. You can’t wipe the poop off because there’s so much sand, and toddler butts and nuts don’t need exfoliation.

Panicked, I throw his pants out the window after wiping his foot off with the clean part. I wasn’t prepared for a poopy diaper, so I can’t find my wipes. I resort to rinsing him off in the parking lot with our water bottle. This doesn’t go over well with Tiny Boss, who wants to continue to watch the iPad in the car and stomp poop, ala Lucille Ball.

Come to think of it, toddlers would make great wine-stompers.

Come to think of it, toddlers would make great wine-stompers.

Then Tiny Boss decides he wants to drink the water, but I can’t give it to him because I accidentally touched the bottle opening to his butt crack. This refusal causes even more distress.

So I take this poopy, sandy, crying, naked boy over to the showers. To calm him down, I talk to him while washing him off in the cold water, explaining that he has a poopy butt that we need to wash off. It’s at this time I realize that I’m probably grossing out all the other moms and kids waiting in line for the showers. I avoid eye contact, slink back to my car with Tiny Boss, pick up the no-longer-awesome swim trunks, and drive home.

Tomorrow, I’m just going to turn on the air conditioning.

How Asian Dora Got Her Groove Back (Well, Not Yet)


“If you look at your son’s nipples and there’s no line through them you’re going to have a baby boy.” Wrong. I’ve double checked Tiny Boss’ nipples – still no lines, but I’m going to go with the ultrasound tech on this one.

“If your husband is getting fatter during your pregnancy, you’re going to have a girl.” No comment. But I don’t think he’s getting fatter. I mean, less skinny.

Out of all the pregnancy superstitions that I’ve heard regarding having a baby girl, here’s the only one that seems true: a baby girl steals her mother’s beauty.

Because lately I’ve been feeling utterly … blah. All those ridiculously cheerful pregnancy websites are totally wrong. BabyCenter has this hilarious article – from which I quote, “Believe it or not, your guy may be loving your new physique. Men tend to see the sensuality in blossoming breasts and soft curves. Plus, the sight of your pregnant form is a constant reminder of his virility.”

Pretty sure the sight of my “pregnant form” to my husband is less a constant reminder of his virility and more of the inevitable upcoming sleep deprivation.

As for me, I don’t feel sexier because of my new bustline or my hormones. My hormones generally make me feel angry, turned on, or like eating chocolate covered gummy bears, sometimes all at the same time.


But leave the gummy bears.

The growing bustline might have made me feel sexy, except for the fact that my nipples seem to be in some sort of growth competition with my boobs and everything below my boobs is growing at a similar rate, if not faster.

The full head of hair? I cut my hair early on in pregnancy. At first I loved the ease and not going to bed with a head full of wet hair (ain’t nobody got time for a blow dryer), but now the added fullness is making me feel like Dora the Explorer.


Just imagine an Asian Dora and that’s pretty much me.

And forget the alleged glow – my skin actually gets worse during pregnancy – I get bumps on the back of my arms, and super dry skin everywhere else. I also kind of look like Neapolitan ice cream, with my sunburned shoulders, pale midsection (I am not wearing a bikini pregnant) and tan legs from dragging Tiny Boss to water parks and beaches on my days off. Mmm, ice cream . . .


And my maternity clothes. Sigh. Can someone please tell Motherhood to stop making so many flower prints? I see them all over my maternity underwear and tops. They’re not sexy, unless you’re really into the Anne of Green Gables look. And yes, I know there are lots of nice maternity clothes, and even some sexy f*nighties, but I really don’t feel like spending five billion dollars on clothes I’ll wear for less than a year.

So what’s the plan to get my groove back? Well, tattoos and piercings are out of the question (they’re off limits during pregnancy due to the risk of disease) and I already colored my hair, something I avoided for almost two years due to my first pregnancy and breastfeeding. I think I’ll go thrifting tomorrow. Maybe I’ll find some awesome, ginormous, non-flowery, vintage print t-shirts that I can wear for the next three months. But don’t worry, I won’t be buying any secondhand f*nighties!

Thank you, pregnancy brain!

maternity pants

Re-enactment. By the way, to add today’s humiliation, our neighbors walked by while my husband was taking this picture of my wet ass on the front lawn.

Pregnancy brain.

I blame you for letting me walk into a tree branch yesterday. For leaving the backdoor unlocked twice in one day. For asking the barista at Starbucks for a “venti ice wa-wa.” That’s my son’s word for water. He is speech delayed, but “wa-wa” is one of the four words the therapists give him credit for. I use it often, and I use it proudly, but I hadn’t used it in adult conversation until this week.

Totally kidding. I said it was a venti ICE WATER. Source:

Totally kidding. I said it was a venti ICE WATER. Source:

I blame you, pregnancy brain, for not closing that water bottle tightly enough today, causing it to leak slowly through my purse and onto my seat as Tiny Boss and I sat in the waiting room for his appointment.

Forty minutes of waiting means forty minutes of my pants absorbing the liquid. Did I mention I wore light maternity khakis today? I didn’t even notice anything was wrong until we headed down the hallway into another waiting area and Tiny Boss decided he was tired and refused to walk. As I turned around to pull him up off the floor, I noticed a huge wet spot across my entire left butt cheek. I hoped the other patients didn’t think that I peed my pants in my with-child state. I tried to make a big show of drying off my wet purse, but then I realized they might think I peed on my purse too. I’m just glad we weren’t at the OB/GYN.

Unrelated, or maybe this can be attributed to pregnancy brain as well – I nursed Tiny Boss today while he was naked. I’m pretty sure I caught a fart in my hand.