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Bring It On

Mmmmm. Ain't it just the way of things?

Here I am. The baby's sleeping and eating well and gaining weight like a new employee at Dairy Queen. I've lost 32 pounds in 12 days, have had about as a good a night's sleep as a breastfeeding mother of a newborn can hope for - The Varmint actually got 7 hours of snooze time under his belt (5 of it a pure, straight uninterrupted grade-A snoozefest) and things are starting, just starting, mind you, to feel, sort of, kind of normal.

Or at least doable.

Then, between staring like a lovelorn junior high school student at my new baby and trying to eat enough food to satisfy my endless hunger, I glance at my boobs - which are surprising in their own way.

Only secondarily do I notice a pile of little red bumps on my skin. "What the-?" There's a rash on my torso, and it goes all the way down to the bottoms of my feet - which, come to think of it, have been very itchy all afternoon. None of the other parts itch, really, just the feet. It's making me a little crazy.

Unsure of what it is, I rush to The Varmint, point to my chest and say, "Look at this!"

"Gladly," replies The Varmint.

"The little red bumps, dude," I scowl at him. "The skin rash?"

"Oh." he says, somewhat less enthusiastically. "Hives. You've got hives."

"Hives?" I ask.

"Hives."

"Hives aren't good," I fret. "They especially aren't good when you're up all night trying to breastfeed the world's hungriest newborn. It's really hard to nurse when your feet are all itchy..."

I watch as The Varmint rummages through his cubbyholes, digging for Benadryl cream, a stash of which is usually prevalent in his gigantic arsenal of medicinal remedies. The Varmint is always prepared.

"Darn," he says. "I'm fresh out. I'll have to go to the drugstore."

Well, almost always. As he heads out to the store to get the cream, I try not to scratch nor to swear under my breath at my crappy luck nor to feel sorry for myself for what promises to be a long night ahead. Instead, I sit and stare at Makenna.

She makes a silly face, then burps a long, man-sized belch and follows it up with a diaper destroying blast that would make her daddy proud. I crack up.

"Bring it on," I think to myself. Hives, stretch marks, c-section scars, whatever. It doesn't mean doodly-squat compared to the bounty curling herself tight into my lap at this very moment. This, I realize, is where it's at for me, now. This is what matters - the rest of it will fall into place or fade away. And that's just fine by me.

Better than fine. It's fantastic.

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I am a writer and lazy artist who loves travel, architecture and design. Right now, I'm into photography. My fabulous husband (a.k.a. The Varmint) and I are also the principals of a San Diego-based creative agency - and new parents to the divine Baby Mak. Read More >