Has Anyone Seen my Lost Shaker of Salt?

I looked at the calendar just now and realized I’m not on maternity leave anymore. 52 calendar weeks have passed since I began my official maternity leave and I am now on vacation time.

This explains why I woke up with “Margaritaville” in my head.

Actually I woke up feeling as though I had spent last night drinking margaritas but it’s just a sinus headache because yes we have another cold at our house. Trombone even had a fever, some throwing up (unrelated to the illness – related to how fast he shoves avocado down his throat) and some general grumpiness around the whole idea of Father’s Day which proves that he is my son because I always get sick on holidays too.

What I did do last night was watch the first episode of Age of Love, aka “More Tripe We Shouldn’t Encourage By Watching.” The premise, in case you are deathly afraid to click any links in my blog and I totally don’t blame you, is that a nice, handsome, tennis-pro man (age: 30) with a puppy (age: puppy) is looking for love on a reality show. He has 13 women to choose from; half in their 40s and half in their 20s. WHO WILL HE CHOOSE? It is to vomit. I know. Saint Aardvark was sitting next to me on the couch shaking his head sadly while he read things on his laptop. But I have a sickness. I HAVE to see these things or I don’t believe they’re real.

I mean, not really real; I know the tripe is scripted. But really, actually on television. Out in the world with its bare face hanging out, self-respect shoved like a used tissue in the front pocket of too-tight jeans.

It is and I saw it and I don’t think I’ll be able to do it again unless I am struck ill every monday all summer long. So much hair-flipping and casual desperation and cleavage, everywhere the cleavage.

Speaking of cleavage. The kind of sad thing about everyone being sick is that up till Saturday I was right on schedule weaning Trombone. I’ve been gradually giving him fewer breastfeeds during the day with my plan being to nurse him twice a day when I’m back at work: morning and night. But after the barfing and the snotting and the fever and the crying, and because it just made sense, over the weekend we went back to almost 5 or 6 feeds a day. This is not sad because I hate breastfeeding – I love breastfeeding – it is sad because my milk supply had diminished appropriately, my breasts were deflating to a reasonable size and I was going to go buy a couple of normal bras and now I must wait. I have the feeling that when all is said and done I will be one of those women whose breasts end up smaller than before she got pregnant.

I understand about underwire now. As a small-breasted woman for most of my life I have bought bras with underwire because it’s easier than trying to buy one without. But now that my breasts, when they are empty of milk, are such lovely petites madeleines, I can see how a properly fitted underwire would be useful for the perking and propping. Surely the right bra could make me go from looking 40s to looking 20s in a catt-fight minute!

It is beliefs like these that sets me up for angry live-blogging from the fitting room but I can’t help it. I believe.

And now “You’re A Superstar” by Love, Inc. is playing and I must go demonstrate Pride Parade float dancing for Trombone.