After a two week fun-filled parade of family folk gatherings in our Portland domicile unit, I am finally finding time and space to make and move. The space comes in short waves. I find myself rushing through quiet moments with a drippy boob peaking out from my shirt, ready to feed. My bosom is getting an incredible work out. Every 2 to 3 hours, miss Beckett gets to enjoy and all-you-can-eat milk buffet. When she opens her mouth I think of baby birds reaching their necks upward desperate for a worm. Milk is the only thing she knows right now and my boobs are all that she trusts.
Beckett is a farty little gal. She doesn't cry much, but she does grunt and groan, which means she needs some extra tender loving and abdominal massage to soothe her woes. It also means I have to curb my intake of beans, whiskey, cheese, and broccoli.
Save for my gigantic and somewhat sore boobs, my body is making its way back to normal. My belly is flattening. I have more energy to walk and stretch. The blood that has been oozing out of me for the last two weeks is fading to a few specks of brown. I've increased my intake of vitamins. The D variety will supposedly keep me chipper and the dried placenta pills will eventually turn my libido into a ferocious mongoloid stripper.