unexpected goodness

Frog’s legs are, actually, very good. They do taste quite a bit like chicken, which is reassuring when confronted with a food that used to be covered in a slick reptile skin. I was afraid that they would come like that, covered in frog skin, and I was certain I would not be able to consume anything covered in frog skin. They were deep-fried, though, battered, and only resembled the extended, leaping legs of a frog in shape.

My week was a lot like that: unexpected goodness in unexpected places. I was surprised on Thursday by an e-mail from the Portland Picks folks, saying they love my Cranky Pals and are featuring them in (last) Friday’s newsletter. Squee! The Crankies, they are all about the love. (I accidentally typed “lobe” there, the Crankies, all about the lobe, and then spent a period of time contemplating what sort of lobe the Crankies might be all about and where in the brain it was located. Although perhaps the ear. It is hard to say.)

The kid = still weaned, which is good since my supply is finally (finally!) dwindling. Apparently I am a milking machine. Several third-world countries could be sustained on my milk supply. Unsurprisingly, now that the milk is finally going the way of the dodo, I find myself suddenly deflated. This means none of my bras are even remotely functional. You’d think I’d just start wearing one of my less immense bras, considering that I had a stash of them from my less endowed days. You’d think that, but that would presuppose that I knew where any of them were, and could locate them as needed. I suspect that they are in a box somewhere, like pretty much everything else we own. Being prepared is not one of my strong suits.

Not nursing is pretty great, though. I heartily recommend it.

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3 thoughts on “unexpected goodness”

  1. I think it’s great that you made it to 18 months. I’m at 8 and I’m really tired of pumping (WOHM) but hopefully we’ll keep making it.

    I never heard of the bad weaning hormones. Now I’m scared…


  2. Yeah, all about the lobe. Frog’s legs. It’s a thinggummie that’s in your head to make them taste like chicken even though they may or may not. Octopus tastes like squid. My daughter tastes mostly like cooky this morning, although I maintain that covered with barbecue sauce she has the best taste… my family thinks I just am too fond of scooping her up for kisses and toe-tasting.

    You’re at least as prepared as I was. I didn’t even own a nursing bra until the Tiff was a week old. And it’s been over two years since I owned a bra that fit. Dude, I’m so registering for nursing bras this time around. And I’m not ashamed of it.


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