Waterloo

I've been in a bit of a blogging slump lately. I have stuff to blog about, like my DC trip (which was lots of fun depsite the lack of blogging about it), but I just can't find my blogging mojo. I've tried doing simple posts and I've pondered just slapping up the pictures from DC and calling it a day but that seams like cheating. Speaking of which, I even thought about seeing if Joan or Opa wanted to "guest blog" the DC trip, but even that felt like asking someone to do my homework for me. So the DC trip has sat in my camera alone and pathetic. And, I am sad to report, that things don't look like they are going to get any better, any time soon. You see, I learned the most tragic thing at our breast feeding class last night. Let me reiterate, THE MOST TRAGIC THING.

Last night we had our first baby/child birth/parenting class and it was on breast feeding ... nothing like jumping straight into the deep end of the pool, eh? All in all it was a very good class. Neither Boo nor I freaked the fuck out, though we did have a moment when we watched a video with an Australian narrator who said "baby" a gazillion times in her strong Australian accent and each of those gazillion times caused one of us to giggle and mutter, "A dingo ate my baby!" Anywho, the instructor was knowledgeable. In fact, she even showed us how to breast feed in public (and we all know how I feel about that, i.e., WRONG) without showing any of your bits or even really what you are doing. Since I've noticed that a lot of woman don't give a flying fig about being discrete or modest, I can only assume that their breast feeding classes were subpar and didn't contain useful information like this. I mean come on, my instructor was a 65+ year old arthritic nurse. If she could whip out her elderly droopy boob and make it work on a weird misshapen doll without revealing a damn thing, there is no excuse for a 30 something year old woman not being able to do the same. But that was not the tragic part. No, it wasn't. Prepare for tragedy, here it comes.

We had moved into the section on the nursing diet and she said, you should eat a healthy and diverse diet. Well, she might have just said, "We are going to talk about mom's nutrition and diet." And I might have cut her off before she got to the healthy and diverse part by throwing my arm in the air with so much force that the rest of my body lifted up out of the chair and I might have been shaking and bouncing and I might have blurted out, before being called on, though being called on was not a requirement, but put me in a class room and I feel like I am under Robert's Rules of Order and need to be called on to speak, but whatever, I digress. I was antsy and anxious and yet, I politely inquired, "So I can have sushi once I give birth right?" and the lady next to me said, "She means we. We can have sushi right?" We might have sounded a little bit desperate. To which the instructor replied, "Sure, as long as it contains no raw fish." And that is when the air left my sails, my ass returned to it's seat, and my world collapsed a little bit. I may have even shed a tear. Because, really, I can have a goddamn veggie roll now. That's not what I want. I want the fishy bits. The salmon rolls. Which, consequently, even if they were cooked would still be no good because nursing moms should only have wild salmon. Not farm raised. Now tell me where in the fuck am I suppose to find a wild salmon out here on the east coast? No where. That's where. So not only can I not have the good sushi, I can't have salmon unless I jet on over to Seattle, Portland or Juno. This is just depressing.