Today I got my hair done.
I went out. By myself. For a couple of hours.
And no one sucked anything from my boobs.
It was pretty awesome.
And, as is my habit, I read US Magazine while waiting for my color to process (sweet JESUS I needed the color no wonder I looked so tired) and can I just say that my baby is way fucking cuter than Nicole Richie's? Yeah, an old issue but STILL. My baby is way damn cuter.
I, however, am not as cute as Nicole Richie. Her whole body weighs the same as my left arm I am sure.
Earlier this week I went to my six week post partum appointment--even though the baby is seven weeks old. Everyone knows that this appointment is so you can be approved to have sex again and so your OB can play with the baby. The baby was passed around gleefully, even with the snuffles, and I was sort of approved to, as Dooce says, "reconvene the procedure."
Sort of meaning sure go ahead, but WAIT don't because I am getting an IUD put in and no sex for a couple of weeks before that. What I love about my OB is that she nicely asked if J would be ok waiting and then laughed her ass off because well not really but tough shit.
People are already asking when we are going to have another. WTF people? And they seem to take our answer of "Um never . . ." as some sort of insult to the baby. No, the baby is delightful. Why mess with delightful? Actually, this decision was not come by lightly and has nothing to do with the actual baby and has everything to do with money and careers and class and Blah Blah BORING SHIT THAT IS NOT YOUR BUSINESS BUT NEITHER IS YOUR ORIGINAL QUESTION ASS. . .
Anyway, seven weeks is a little early to be asking me when I am having another baby.