On applying antiperspirant to my hindquarters, and other things.
I use antiperspirant. I know, it gives the Baby Jesus Alzheimer’s, but I’m just that kind of monster. I sweat like a pig, you see. Not some freshly scrubbed pink piglet, either. Like a great hairy sow who’s been gently poaching in a puddle of slops all day.* And yeah, I’ve tried that whole use deodorant for a while and your body will adjust. But that is not what happens. No. What happens is that I stink hideously. So anyway, I use antiperspirant. It is a kajillion degrees here. I am pregnant. While it seems I’m not a big gainer of weight, at least some of what I gain appears on my thighs. Their inner portions sweat. Then they rub. Then they chafe. Then they chafe themselves RAW and I am crippled. Halfway through my walk home one day I was reduced to whimpering and begging my husband to pick me up. But then as I was applying antiperspirant to my underarms the following day it occurred to me…maybe this would work on my ass, too. And it does. HURRAH. I can walk again.
Although…while I’m very pleased with this genius solution**, and I’m very happy to be stuffed full of wiggly fetus, and when people say it must be soooo awful to be pregnant in this heat I say I will never find it awful to be pregnant because I am very grateful and they feel very awkward and say oh and move away quickly, I DO think it’s quite possible that I will die if it does not get cooler soon.
As the proud owner of a PhD in Linguistics (and here you thought my PhD was in Psychology. That too. I know. I’m amazing. That’s why I know everything about everything and you should NEVER, EVER CROSS ME.), I’m not worried that my child utters nary a word. She has all the behaviors of a person on the threshold of entering the wonderful world of language, and she’s already more advanced than a chimpanzee, so I’m mainly enjoying watching her develop. But I do wish she’d say mama. I mean, she does, all the time, but I wish she’d say it with some semantics behind it.
On the other hand, once she does say it then she’ll be able to wail it in heartbreaking contexts, like when I have to leave her and she doesn’t want to be left. So I take it back. I hope she never learns to say mama.
A while back I requested info about transitioning from formula to cow milk. (I did the mixing thing, and that worked well. Thanks!) Now I would like to transition from milk in a bottle to milk in a cup. (Don’t ask why. I have my reasons.) Currently Bun Bun is conditioned to think of water-and-cup as a single entity, and milk-and-bottle as a single entity. I would like to break that association. I’ve tried giving her milk in a cup and she was surprised. That’s not how it’s supposed to work, her little brain said. So while I’ve continued to present it, she won’t drink the milk, and I feel obliged to pour it into a bottle for her. (Because she refuses to eat a lot of nice calcium-y things, like yogurt, cottage cheese, etc., and also refuses a lot of protein-y things, so we’re kinda missing the top of our food pyramid otherwise.) I’m thinking I will just cut her off this weekend. No milk except in a cup. Any other thoughts?
*I know, the idiom is actually about iron, not pigs, but I got carried away by the imagery.
**Turns out they make actual products for this, so I am not really a genius. OH WELL.