At last count the news was reporting over 800 fires raging in California, mostly up here where we live. The fact that they don’t precise the exact number, just that it’s something above 800 maybe less than 1,000, is desperate enough. The fact that Gianna and I haven’t been able to leave the walls of this house since Sunday is just pitiful.

The guys outside working on our deck and my uncle who does our landscaping don’t seem to mind the smoke, none of whom will wear a mask, not even when I pleasantly offer them one with a smile and thinly veiled threats of “serious consequences” meaning, I’m going to tell their wives what they’re NOT doing. Add “tattle-tale” to my list of character flaws.

It’s just nasty outside and scary that our air quality has reached the “unhealthy” mark for 7 days straight. There is only one other designation on that 5-point scale. Next up is “dangerously unhealthy” and instead of just cautioning the elderly and infants to remain indoors, the alert goes out to everyone. I guess the deck guys and my uncle are waiting for that to happen before they don a mask?

As it is, Gianna and I just stand in front of our big living room windows, waving safely from behind the glass, breathing our filtered (if not fresh), air trying gamely to come up with new funny faces to make at the men outside. She just laughs at her reflection and doesn’t notice how we can’t quite see to the end of our property anymore and I pretend I’m just as happy to sing “Alouette” for the 188th time as I was to sing it the first time. Putting my boredom aside and looking for a moment on the bright side, at least she’s just an infant and not a toddler whining, “But, WHY can’t we go outside and play, Mommy?” every five seconds. At least I can still entertain her well enough with snappy songs and crazy faces and I can always use the Jumperoo!

I, on the other hand, have no hope of having someone entertain me for the duration of my confinement. I stare at our blackened skies and wistfully remember why we were building the deck in the first place, to have a cozy spot to enjoy the summer outside. Of course this only depresses me further. And I’m beginning to feel a bit like a fish in an aquarium with the workers only steps from my windowed world, whistling tunes as they pound their hammers oblivious to me swimming circles inside.

No, I’m not an alcoholic but I AM the kind of person who goes to the grocery store and comes home with more beer and wine than fresh produce. That’s why when I saw this new handy-dandy product called Milkscreen I knew it was for me.

It’s the perfect stocking stuffer for those hard-to-shop-for breastfeeding moms who just can’t lay off the booze. A portable but not exactly convenient way to make sure your milk isn’t going to get your infant pulled over at the next highway patrol checkpoint. But, since you actually have to “milk” on the test strip, the makers of Milkscreen must be assuming that us nursing moms like to whip out the milk bags as part of our stupid human tricks side show act at parties OR that we’re so hyper-anxious about ourselves as moms that we would carry these strips in our cocktail purses … oh, who am I kidding? What nursing mother goes to cocktail parties, or shin-digs of any flavor anymore? In all likelihood, the only reasonable way we would use this is out of boredom and feigned curiosity (feigned because no result would stop us from finishing that glass of hard-won adult freedom), drink in one hand, nursing babe in the other and test strip held up by our husbands as proof that we are not as godly as we proclaim to be at this parenting gig.

Actually, I hate to admit it, and it’s taking some huge show of bravery to put this out there and risking Child Protective Services knocking down my door and countless ridiculing comments from my readers, but I AM the kind of mom who would use Milkscreen. I am THAT mom. Gianna, you are going to love this photo for ammunition in your teenage years.

So, from one beer, wine and alcohol-loving breastfeeding mom to the makers of Milkscreen, thank you for bringing out a product that will further deflate my ego that I am the best mother in the world, cast self-doubt and needless worrying about my red wine with dinner every night and will further provide me with a source of mommy guilt to obsess over. As if motherhood and breastfeeding weren’t already complicated! sheeesh!

Before you read further, I want it recorded that I actually debated about writing this exposé of Benoit, for a whole two seconds, maybe.

Let me begin with exhibit A, a seemingly normal baby onesie, the indispensable staple of baby dressing.

These cute little shirts that come with 3, not 2, or 1, or 4 but, 3 snaps at the crotch form the foundation for most outfits and are well-loved by parents for their speed and ease.

Benoit managed to find a way to make the 3-snap onesie even easier and he would add, faster. I didn’t think it could be done. I was pretty sure the onesie was solidly in first place for must-have baby clothing but he took it upon himself to reinvent it.

Seen here is Benoit’s “Slacker-Dad Onesie”
(aka “the why-use-three-snaps-when-you-could-just-snap-the-middle-one onesie” ) soon to be marketed in a baby store near you!

It’s that time again! She’s been weighed and stretched from head to toe, jiggled and prodded, every ear and eye examined and pronounced a-okay at her 4 month well-baby visit. Yippee!

So, she’s been officially recorded in the 95th percentile for her height (a whopping 26 inches! three more and we’re out shopping for a new car seat) and 75th percentile for her weight at 15lbs. 11oz. Thankfully, she does not seem to have inherited Benoit’s massive melon since she is measuring a perfectly average 50th percentile for head circumference, which ought to make accessorizing with hats a considerably easier task for her than it is for him.

After jotting down all her growth numbers the doctor consulted with us about my nursing troubles (doesn’t seem to be affecting her weight yet) and our disrupted sleeping patterns because of the frequency she has been eating to make up for my less than abundant supply. I also expressed my anxiety over not being able to pump to increase my supply because she won’t take a bottle thereby setting me up for a famished little gremlin come the next feeding time and an even emptier breast. FYI, not a good combination.

We listed the various bottles and nipples we’ve tried, from Dr. Browns (the most expensive) to Playtex drop-ins (the least) and every odd-looking, orthodontic, latex and silicone shape in between. Apparently, it’s not the bottle or nipple that she detests it’s actually anything besides the soft, cushy real thing. We’ve also attempted feeding her with those minuscule soft-bite infant spoons which is quite comical in retrospect when you think of how much milk could balance in the millimeters of space provided on those spoons and how much of it was left after traveling the shaky distance from bowl to wide shut infant Gianna’s mouth. Ha! Only, then it was much more like “AAAAHHHHH!!!!”

Seeing our exasperation as we told our battle stories, the doctor recommended that we try giving her a bottle everyday at the same time of day, at a time when she is normally hungry and preferably when I’m not at home. Well, the not being at home part is practically impossible since there is no one to come and feed her in the middle of the day since most folks have those pesky yet indispensable day jobs. So, we’ll give it our best shot each night when Benoit comes home and I make dinner and he’ll take her on a little walk around the house outside which is as close as we can get to me doing a disappearing act. Cross your fingers that this works for us please! I’m certainly tired of feeding this child 10-12 times a day, which, by the way, is more often than she ever nursed as a newborn!

The doctor also gave us the green light for solids and you can bet just as soon as her little “shuck the spoon out of her mouth, gag and thrust reflexes” are gone I’ll be introducing solids faster than she can figure out a way to spit them out!