26

Yeah. Today, er, yesterday was my birthday. I'm twenty-six. Gah, I'm getting so effing old. I can feel the creepy cold fingers of thirty wrapping around my neck as I fight like hell not to give up my twenties. The last few weeks of stress combined with my inability to take the lady hormones I desperately need (breastfeeding and all that) have created streaks of gray in my usually black hair. I'm starting to look as old as Dave--and damn, that's old. Like cranky old bastard yelling at the kids to get off his lawn old.

With the new kiddo and all, this year was a really laid back celebration. Dave-O made dinner, picked up my fave cheesecake, brought home a fabulous flower arrangement and an iTunes gift card. Best gift of all though? (Besides his burning love for me and the munchkin, of course.) An uninterrupted four hours of sleep. It was heaven. Absolute heaven. Dave forced me into the bedroom, turned on the TV so I wouldn't hear Nyx fussing or wailing, assured me there was plenty of breast milk in the fridge for the kiddo (enough for three feedings) and closed the door. I passed out in seconds and woke up four hours later with boobies bursting with milk. Best four hours of sleep I've had since August.

In Nyx related news, we took her in for a pedi visit today. It's the first time she's seen Dr. Svendsen since her surgery. The doc was totally impressed by Nyx's vast improvement. Thumbelina has gained one pound and two ounces since she was discharged from TCH. Yeah. She gained that much weight in, like, two weeks. Holy hell. Can you imagine what the fat content of my breast milk must be? I wondered where my ass had gone...and now I know!

On the crappy front, Nyx has a sacral dimple that we have to have checked out to rule out spina bifida or kidney problems. I know. I've just about had it with the seemingly never-ending health issues. We're still waiting for the kiddo's chromosome tests to rule out DiGeorge, Turners, Noonan and something else. Fingers crossed, she doesn't have any other underlying issues. But, if she does, we'll deal.

We seem to be getting really good at plowing through the poo.