Fun stuff #1:
The condom broke. Although it's highly unlikely I'm in a fertile state while breast-feeding an 8-week old infant, this is not a chance I was willing to take. So off I went to the doctor for an emergency IUD, which is a nifty little device that a doctor places in your uterus where it shoots copper ions at any renegade sperm and confuses them so they can't find the egg. Or something like that.
I picked up the IUD from the pharmacy and read the information sheet before heading to my appointment. Casually tucked into the description of an IUD insertion were these terrifying words: "Some women may experience mild discomfort during the insertion process." Fuuuck.
Over the years I have discovered that the medical profession's definition of "mild discomfort" and mine differ slightly.
"OW! Damn mosquito!"
"This emergency amputation without anesthesia may sting a tad."
After pondering this truth, I became mildly nervous about my impending discomfort and nearly drove off the road as my sweaty hands slid around the steering wheel on the way to the doctor's office. I'll spare you the details of my appointment. A cervical dilator became necessary and the words "tricky insertion" were thrown around. It was more fun than either of my two c-sections, which at least came with drugs and bedside attendants (aka nurses).
IUDs are 99% effective and you can leave one in for up to five years. Combined with J.'s impending vasectomy, this should ensure the baby shop is closed. If I get pregnant with these two things in place, there may be a divine force in the universe after all.
Fun stuff #2:
Despite working out like a fiend, my weight has not budged in the last two weeks. My increasing frustration with this state of affairs has resulted in massive ice cream consumption, setting up one hell of a vicious circle. It also makes me not want to leave the house to go anywhere other than the gym, because I have approximately two shirts and two pairs of pants that don't make me want to cry uncontrollably when I look in the mirror.
On Tuesday my boss wanted to meet for a casual lunch, so I was forced to put on actual clothes. After a traumatic 45 minutes trying on every non-maternity shirt in my closet, I finally found one that could contain my ginormous boobs. Somehow I got out of the house without A. yarking all over the shirt and had a pleasant lunch, for once feeling slightly more well-groomed than a troll or Person of Wal-Mart.
Yesterday I had to take A. for his 8-week vaccination needles and pulled on the same trusty shirt (don't judge until your boobs have exploded from DD into triple letters; the world is lucky I don't just give up and walk around in my nursing bra and nothing else). It was only after I got home that I noticed something odd about the shirt I had been wearing over the last three days. Do you see it?
The moral of this story is to always check your nipples before you leave the house. Everyone can see you're large and in charge. You don't need to decorate your breasts with a size L sticker just to make sure.
And that's the kind of week it's been.