Just in case I haven't made y'all totally sick by now,

...here's another quick post on breastfeeding to really send you over the top.

(Hey. Don't say I've never done anything for you.)

I got out tonight. On my own. For thirty minutes.

Did you hear that? On my own. No children. No anybody. Just me and my wallet, cruising down to WalMart for diapers. (Do you hear Aerosmith's "Livin' On the Edge" playing off in the background?)

I left hubby with one preschooler and one recently fed (but constantly hungry) two-month-old. A just-thawed bottle of breastmilk sat in the fridge, ready and waiting for Evan to get hungry again--something that generally happens every six to seven minutes, unless he's REALLY hungry; then it's a little more often than that.

I came home to Colin holding his hands over his ears while Hubby jostled Evan a little too enthusiastically on one shoulder.

"How long has he been crying?" I asked.

"Since you left," was the haggard and demoralized reply.

"What about..."

"The bottle?" Hubby asked. "He wouldn't take it. He wanted the real thing."

"How do you know?"

"Because he tried," Hubby answered with a grimace, nodding downward toward his bare chest.

Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeew. I think I'd cry too.

I mean if you're a hungry breastfed baby...the LAST thing you want to see bared to you is this.

Blugh. (Is "blugh" a word?)

It's kind of weird, though...when I took Evan from Hubby and offered him the real thing, I could swear his little mouth opened and he began to sing, "It's not un-yoooooooooo-shoo-wul to be loved...by...an-eeee-one..."