Moo

You know that joke about breakfast? A day's work for the chicken and a lifetime commitment for the pig? It's supposed to make you feel bad for the pig - but I'm really starting to empathize with the chicken.

Or, more appropriately, the dairy cow.

I am a milk machine. Cael, at the ripe old age of 12 days, decided to go through a growth spurt. Instead of the already tedious hour long feedings every three to four hours, he now demands to be fed every two. For those of you who struggle with math, that's an hour on, an hour off for 24 hours a day. I feel like the espresso machine at the Starbucks at Pike's Place (I bet it smells like sour milk too).

You'd think that with all this practice at least we'd be getting more efficient - that we'd be a well oiled machine by now. When really? We are backtracking. Rapidly. Somehow he's lost all nipple-sense that he'd gained in the first few days. He used to latch on in a minute or two. Now he couldn't locate the dang thing in under 15 minutes with both hands, a flashlight and a map. It's like he's bobbing for apples with a blindfold on and when he finds one he spits it out before sinking his gums in.

Also contributing to the unnecessarily long feeding session is his uncanny ability to fall asleep right when the getting is good. He finally makes contact and it must release some chemical trigger in his brain that sends him straight off to the land of nod. He will not be woken by bouncing, singing, ice bath, or fog horn. The only way to wake him up is to put him in his bed. Then he starts wailing. I am painfully aware of the irony, yes.

He's going to have to get a little more finesse with the boobies before I let him date. We wouldn't want him to embarrass himself by blindly groping or falling asleep.