1 Mother 2 Another

So Brian gave me a t-shirt for my birthday that’s really cool; it looks like the A&W Root Beer logo, but it’s R&R and says “Rock and Roll” on it.  The best part, though, is that the logo actually smells like root beer!  Brian thought I’d love this, since I’ve had to give up all carbonated beverages while breast-feeding.  Why, you ask?

One of my girlfriends warned me about the gassy effects of carbonated beverages, and since I’m not a soda type of girl anyway- I pretty much only drink milk and water- I figured, ok, piece of cake to cut that out.  But every couple of months pre-nursing I’d have a root beer or crème soda or something, and I’m surprised at how much I miss it.  Towards the end of my pregnancy especially I was drinking rather more root beer than I should have – almost a glass a day.  My girlfriend Renee, who was three months ahead of me in her pregnancy, called during my last trimester to check in with me and mentioned she had really craved root beer during her pregnancy.  As soon as she said the words, I though, “YES!  That is what I have been wanting!”  So my consumption began, and I then infected another person; my girlfriend Abby, who was four months behind me in her pregnancy, came over, saw the root beer in the fridge, and was immediately craving it as well.  I have no idea why.

 At any rate, on our tenth anniversary Madeleine was three months old and I decided to splurge and have a crème soda.  I reasoned that she’d grown out of her colicky phase, so perhaps this wouldn’t be too bad.  Listen, she tooted like a brass band for the next two days.  So nix on the soda for the next several months!

Which is why Brian gave me a scented t-shirt.  Which I loved.  The problem is that Madeleine loves it as well.  A little too much. 

 I wore it for the first time, and while sitting in my lap facing me, she caught a whiff.  Curious, she dove closer and breathed deeply.  Entranced, she began licking my shirt, starting at one end of the logo, traveling across the shirt, and journeying back methodically.  She would periodically rear back, a look of bliss on her face not unlike my cat’s with a good ball of catnip, then dive rapturously back in for more.  We were laughing at the antics when my Mom Radar belatedly kicked in; I’m guessing the chemicals used to make the shirt smell so great are probably not the best thing for her to, er, ingest.  I put a stop to the show, and so far she’s not exhibited any ill effects, but my t-shirt was definitely the worse for the wear, with a solid line of wet soaked clear through to my bra; it looked like the worst nursing leak ever.  If she grows up with some weird root beer fetish, we’ll know whom to blame.  My husband, of course.