This first appeared on Ravishly.com. But I’m putting it here, because it needs to be everywhere.
Attention Civilians: Colonel David Iverson does not want to see your boobs.
The Commander of the Mountain Home Air Force Base in Mountain View, Idaho, has written a policy barring women from breastfeeding in front of others. If you are going to breastfeed your baby, you’d better either do it under cover of darkness (a blanket, as it were) or in a designated nursing zone/office/private space. If none of those options suit you, you may take your baby and your breasts elsewhere.
I’m thinking his office.
I got a hold of Iverson’s memo, dated 16 April 2015, which looks like this:
Saying you “respect the rights of mothers” but will “accommodate those rights while respecting concerns of exposure in public settings” is basically like saying, “I’m not a racist, I just don’t like black people” or “I agree in marriage equality, just not for gay people.”
Meanwhile, in Section 2, Commander Iverson would like to ensure that a mother be offered a private space, or office, in which to nurse. If said mother chooses not to accept the generous offer of a private space, and refuses to cover, she may be asked to leave. May I refer to my earlier suggestion? That is so thoughtful of you to let me use your office, Commander Iverson. Do you happen to have any snacks? Breastfeeding leaves me famished!
Seriously, I’ve been staring at at my blank Macbook screen for a solid 10 minutes, and am still shocked by what I’m seeing.
Why are we still talking about breastfeeding discretion?
Before we delve deeper into this United States Air Force “policy,” let me offer a barebones overview of breastfeeding laws in our esteemed nation.
Federal law protects your right to use your breast anywhere, at any time, under any circumstance, to feed your baby on federal premises—including military installations. State laws on the subject, however, vary. In Idaho, the location of Mountain Home AFB, there are quite literally none. That’s right: there is not one solitary law protecting a breastfeeding mother and her infant—who I might add is probably hungry. Ironically, Idaho also has the highest breastfeeding rate in the nation. Hats off, mothers.
Here’s where things get a little convoluted. Federal law supersedes state law. That is, in circumstances where the two are in conflict, federal law automatically wins. So tap out, Idaho . . . right? Not quite. Because here’s where things get reallyconfusing. Military bases are not subject to state law, but are governed by federal law, except in the event that the garrison commander/commanding officer of a military installation deems it necessary to issue new policy, as is allowed by U.S. Code Title 10.
Who’s on first?
To make sense of this all, I did what any logical person would do: I used a lifeline and called my grandfather, Leonard E. Giuliani Capt. Ret., who served in the United States Navy for nearly 30 years of his life. That’s a long time and he was in charge of a bevy of important things, including court marshaling. Also, he still gets saluted and the front parking space, so I think he probably knows what’s up.
This is how it went:
Me: Hey grandpa, doesn’t federal law count on a military base? This Colonel at an AFB in Idaho made a policy that you can’t breastfeed without a cover.
Him: Well, yes. But (oh, here we go with the but) a commanding officer has it in his authority to make a policy as needed or required, as he deems necessary.
Me: But this is about breastfeeding. It’s just boobs. (This may be the only time I’ve said the word “boobs” to my grandfather, by the way.) Doesn’t that seem a little extreme?
Him: *Humpf* Well I never did anything like that. That seems unusual. You should contact an attorney who specializes in military law. Your grandmother has been sleeping in because of her back. Can you come late morning instead of early tomorrow?
Him: See you in the morning.
And there you have it, straight from my 81-year-old Italian grandfather. I might add that I have five children, and I have nursed those five children over 10 years collectively, certainly in front of him a number of times, and certainly without cover. And he never enacted any sort of “policy” regarding my imprudence.
So to get back to my central question: why are we still talking about breastfeeding discretion?
Are we—and by “we,” I mean Commander Colonel David Iveson of the United States Air Force and every other person in the world who thinks the sight of a baby nursing is abhorrent—so completely disturbed by the sight of a breast that we can’t let a baby eat? Let’s be reasonable. I have a Vogue magazine sitting right here (in the name of research, obviously), and there are no fewer than 17 breasts with more tissue visible than I would ever expose while nursing. (Unless the babe performs a tactical maneuver called The Abrupt Pop Off, in which case I would frantically yank down my shirt, lest everyone in the near vicinity be subject to a milk shower.)
What is the big deal, David? Oh, I’m probably supposed to call you Colonel or Commander or something. But I’m not in the Air Force and I’m not sure, so, David? What is it? Who are you worried about? Is the sight of two inches of breast so arousing to the young enlisted that you must protect their fragile sexuality? Are you concerned about the babies being part of some illicit scheme to corrupt the minds of the impressionable? Are these nursing mothers running about topless screaming, “I WILL NOT BE CONTAINED”?
I am asking this in earnest. Why override a clearly written (well, sort of) federal law that protects a mother’s right to engage in an act that is so natural, so completely innocuous, that it shouldn’t even require a law in the first place? Furthermore, why isn’t anyone challenging this nonsense? Further furthermore, why are we even still having this conversation?
Could we be doing anything else? I don’t know, is there maybe some sort of civil war somewhere that you might want to look into?
Just a suggestion.
I haven’t blogged in 3 years.
I’m back. Sort of. My traditional blogging format will be exchanged for a new and
improved easier method. I’m calling it “blogging on the fly”. Which essentially mean I’ll blog, you know, completely sporadically.
I want to share with you this bit… For many years I’ve been told to write a book. At one point I even kept a blog of the same name. I never imagined my writing would be anything worth reading. Much less anything worth writing a book about. I’m really grateful to be able to use my voice this way. And I’m very grateful to you for reading.
I wish I could tell you, but I don’t even know.
One morning I was changing diapers and pulling weeds. The next morning I was on The Today Show. Literally the next morning. A fews after that I was on The Rachael Ray show. I wrote an article about being happy, and fat. I told the story of how being thin didn’t solve my problems. I told the story of an obsession to meet an ideal that was impossible to attain and sustain. It seems like it resonated with a few people.
It all started at ravishly and from there went to the Huff post front page, then the Yahoo front page.
An excerpt from my recent article on Ravishly.com:
“I’m going to just stop here and tell you the next week and a half look pretty much exactly like those first few days. Only, add in a bunch of print stuff, and substitute any one of 4 other shows in place of TheToday Show, and Inside Edition. Weekend Sunrise Australia (filmed via satellite in San Francisco). Canada AM. The Rachael Ray Show (which airs this Thursday). AOL.com. Redbook magazine. Parenting.com. Something called farrahgray.com. Buzzfeed. Brigitte magazine in Germany. This fox affiliate. This ABC affiliate. This paper in Georgia. This paper in Iceland (oh how I wish I spoke Icelandic). This and this and this and this blog (actually not sure what that last one is). A multi page feature in a magazine as yet to be disclosed. Two phone interviews with Sirius. This radio station in Toledo (don’t tell them I don’t like country music). And apparently a mention on The Talk. And a bunch of other google results that I won’t bore you with because if you clicked on even a quarter of the previous mentions you are so so sick of my face.”
My mind is blown. Matt insists he isn’t surprised at all. He’s probably not lying.
The future holds good things for me, and for those who can relate. I will tell my story as long as people need to hear it. I thank you readers and friends for your love and support always.
“Happiness comes from within. Do not see it without.” The Buddha
oh and here I am with Rachael Ray. No big deal. (LOVED HER. ALL CAPS LOVED HER)
Max is snug on my chest as I write this. He is a whole 84 hours old. It’s funny how 84 hours can pass like minutes. It seems like he’s been with our family three days and yet forever. I’ve been waiting to write his story.. Waiting until the words would flow like melted butter from my fingers to the keys, waiting for inspiration that would allow me to convey how this experience made me feel. The moment eludes me and I don’t want to wait. Each passing hour the details become more foggy, the emotion less raw. And so here it is.
The story of how a baby gets here is so much more than just the labor that pushes them from their mother to the earth. It’s about the way they were made, the way they grew, the way we grew with them. It’s about how those moments change us as women and mothers, about how those moments MAKE us. Max is my sixth baby. The fifth one to lie breathing in my arms. And the first one to teach me things about myself I might never have learned. His story is unique. Joyful. Painful. And His only.
Max’s story starts with his sister’s. Ella’s beautiful labor and complicated arrival left me with feelings of betrayal and confusion. How could my body let me down? Did I let her down? Could I trust myself again? My body again? I brought these emotions to my pregnancy with Max and worked hard to let them go. To trust. To let Max’s story unfold for him. And to grow into a woman of strength and courage during the 10 months Max was growing within me.
I envisioned Max’s arrival as an opportunity for healing. A chance for growth. Redemption. Peace. I envisioned a birth that was ideal, perfect. But in my desire for perfection I left little room for the imperfection that is birth. I forgot to leave myself space to surrender control.
The weeks before Max arrived were punctuated by contractions, unrelenting pelvic pain, consuming exhaustion, difficult sleepless nights, painful emotional days. I would pace and squat. Rock and sway. Many nights, all night. On Saturday before Max came I did just that. On Sunday, with concern and question, we saw our backup midwife for reassurance. Was this normal still? Was Max too big? We were met with her optimism that Max wasn’t “that” big. But that he was high. Very high still. My cervix closed (a change from the previous 3 cm and 90% effaced) but soft. The clock would continue to tick the minutes away, no end in sight. I should rest when I could she said. Exercise patience. Enjoy a glass of wine and the moments left in my last pregnancy. Try to forget about contractions until they wouldn’t be ignored.
I was 40 weeks and 1 day pregnant.
That afternoon I struggled through contractions to nap. That evening we went out to our usual Sunday dinner with the kids. I eventually lost my mucus plug. The same contractions chased me all night. Three minutes. Five. Seven. Four. Eight. Never consistent but never spaced enough to rest. Sway. Stand. Lay. Rock. Try, fruitlessly, to sleep. At 3:58 am Monday, March 26th, my water broke with one small gush of clear fluid. We woke Kelsey to help and she occupied Ella, who had been awake since 3:30, while Matt pumped and filled the tub and I changed the sheets, brushed my hair and teeth, put on my labor clothes, and baked a birth day cake.
In the 5 o’clock hour the team arrived. Our friend and photographer Staci, our Doula Megan, and Jacque, our midwife and mother hen. We timed contractions and then didn’t. Chatted. Played our birth playlist. James Taylor, Jack Johnson. Joni. Marley. We laughed. The mood was light and easy. I knit an i-cord to tie Max’s umbilical cord with. I rocked. Sat on the ball. Swayed with Matt. Listened to my birthing affirmations. We had pancakes and bacon. We walked. I nursed Ella several times, embracing the sudden increase in intensity with each session. We laid, the three of us, in our family bed and dozed for an hour. At some point we all acknowledged that things were slowing to a stop. The contractions were more than bearable, spacing out, allowing for rest. At 10:30 we decided to start a black and blue cohosh regimen. I was grateful to have the tinctures even if they weren’t particularly flavorful and took them straight from the bottle. Jacque left to see some other patients. We walked more. Kelsey went for sandwiches. I was admittedly getting anxious. My membranes had been ruptured since 4 am. I felt the clock ticking knowing each passing hour increased risk for infection and knowing 24 hours was as long as I’d feel comfortable being in labor under those circumstances. We started using the breast pump to stimulate contractions. This was remarkably effective so we continued. Fifteen minutes on. Fifteen off. During the off time I’d walk the stairs and lunged hoping to help Max find his way. This intensified the contractions quite a bit. Megan and Matt would work on the Spleen 6 acupressure point. I was encouraged as they became closer and more painful. Excited. Anxious. Ready.
In the 3-4 o’clock hour the contractions became more intense and I asked that someone call Jacque. Things seemed to be moving along. When she returned I asked her for an exam. I was just 5 cm at this point but actively laboring. It seemed like things might move quickly. We ate soup and hot french bread. Matt and I showered. He put Ella to bed around 7:45 and I got in the tub. My friend Emily arrived quietly and Kelsey talked with my sister Raegan, filling her in on the details. We had a second midwife arrive to be another set of hands. Things started to feel busy. Noisy. I was struggling to maintain focus. The contractions were quite painful at this point, more so than my previous births. The pain in my pelvic bone was excruciating. Far more than the pain of just the contractions alone. I couldn’t get comfortable. No position would alleviate the pain. I was beginning to get panicky and hoping this was transition coming. Perhaps things were moving quickly?
At 10:30 I was 7 cm. Max was still quite high. There was a bulging bag of fluid in front of him. We talked about how to get him down. I’d been doing it all without result. Stairs. Squats. Sways. Lunges. Jacque suggested Matt and I go upstairs and rest and talk with one another and Max. We did. The contractions spaced out a bit and I dozed. Periodically I’d open my eyes and see Matt watching me, his face awash with love and concern. We talked about how much longer we’d go on if there was no change in his position. I’d been up for more than 30 hours that point with no rest, and really days with only an hour of sleep here and there. I was exhausted and becoming fearful and irrational. Matt was worried about my safety and Max’s. I wondered if Max was so large that his size was preventing his descent. I considered another Dystocia. We laid that way, just us and Max until 12:00. At 12:30 I asked Jacque to check me again. I was making deals with myself in my mind, hoping there was some change, any change. There was a moment where Matt met my gaze and we both knew the line in the sand would soon be drawn.
My cervix was unchanged. Max was still just as high. My contraction pattern was ineffective. Incredibly painful and not producing change. I had some bloody discharge that was concerning to Jacque. The bag of water in front of Max’s head was full enough that it was impossible to tell if the cord was present in it. She felt it might be. Breaking the bag to help him settle was a risky option with the possibility of cord prolapse. His head was virtually unreachable.
We decided to transfer to the hospital.
There was a flurry of activity. I was being sucked into a vortex of worst cases and what ifs. Exhaustion was making me fearful and irrational. We called our backup midwife Rita and she agreed to meet us at the hospital. I sobbed as I packed a bag, gathered Max’s things, grabbed a toothbrush, searched for peace I couldn’t find. I sobbed and pleaded with my body to work. I stood in front of the mirror in my bathroom, looking at the reflection of a woman I didn’t recognize, desperate, exhausted, frightened. I cried and begged for the homebirth I wanted. The one that would heal me of the betrayal I felt after Ella. The birth that would make me feel confident and whole, sure of myself. Proud. Strong. I cried because that birth wasn’t the birth I was getting. Matt hugged and kissed me again and again saying it would be ok. Telling me that our family was the only thing that had any meaning in his life. Reassuring me and encouraging me.
Jacque and Megan followed us. The 25 minute drive to the hospital was an eternity. I had contractions every 4 minutes. I was sealtbelted, writhing and crying in pain, physical, emotional. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to. I just want my BODY TO WORK,” I plead. I was afraid. Afraid of judgment. Afraid of the stares I’d get from my previous co-workers (as I had worked there as a RN myself). I was terrified that the only option left was a c-section that I desperately didn’t want. We bypassed the ER quickly and walked straight onto the labor floor and were met with the necessary paperwork all ready for us. The triage RN, a friend, took me straight to a room. Another friend, met us there and quickly admitted me. Rita was already there too, waiting. I climbed onto the so familiar bed. The bed I’d knelt against so many times as a nurse. The bed where I’d caught the babies who couldn’t wait for the doctor, the bed where I’d delivered both good and bad news so many times to other frightened parents. This time the bed was an unfamiliar though, hard, cold, unforgiving against contractions that continued to come wave after wave. This time I was the patient.
We looked to Rita for guidance. I was too tired to know what to do. My instincts were shutting down. I couldn’t tune into myself. Matt was only worried about Max and I and our safety. Rita did an exam. I was 8 cm. Same. Max was high. Very high. Same. There was a full bag of water. Same. All the same. She offered us a c-section, as expected. She told me she knew how exhausted I was and wanted me to know that I didn’t have to endure anymore. I could be holding my baby in 15 minutes. But Rita knows me. And so in the same breath she said, “I know you don’t want that so let me think about what we can do.” She walked out for a minute while the RN started my IV and did the admission paperwork. And I contracted. Still. Crying.
When she came back in the room it was with a burst and a triumphant smile. “I KNOW what to do!” It was the first moment I’d felt encouraged in a day. She suggested a few things. #1 that we should let Max continue to try to come down. She ignored the clock and the fact my water had been broken 21 hours. She reiterated that he didn’t feel huge. She thought he was acynclitic (crooked) . #2 She felt that the best chance to allow him to come down was for me to get an epidural so that my pelvis would have the ability to relax and the contractions and Max to do their work. #3 She felt that the water would eventually break on it’s own but not until he was low enough for it to be safe. She felt like time was our best ally.
I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t want pain relief. I didn’t want a c-section. I didn’t want a stuck baby or a sick baby. I just wanted him to be born. Peacefully. Quietly. Into my hands. Desperately, I asked Matt what to do.
We decided that we’d take her advice.
I cried. Sobbed. I looked to Matt for reassurance. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to leave my home. I didn’t want the lights of a hospital. I didn’t want a cold, hard bed. I didn’t want an IV. Monitors. Tubes. Wires. Strangers. All things I did not want. I wanted Max to be greeted in his first moments by the people who love him. I wanted peace. Power. Love. Not this.
But more than any of that? I wanted our son. Here. Safe.
I laid writhing with contractions that the epidural couldn’t dull. Side to side I’d turn. Matt would snuggle behind me. Then stand beside me, telling me always he loved me, telling me our choice was sound. Two hours later my water broke with a flood and I felt Max’s head, then shoulders, slip into my pelvis. Just like that. His head was as crooked as Rita thought. She maneuvered it this way and that during an exam. I turned from side to side. The pressure of his head was remarkable. At 4 am I was 9 cm. At 6 am I was 9.5. It was a slow slow process as Max and I worked together to get him engaged and moving down. By 6:40 the pressure was unbearable and I begged to push, grunting through contractions, trying to let my pelvis relax so Max could carve out his space. Jacque was there, encouraging me, helping me focus on the task at hand. Matt was there, saying it wouldn’t be long, telling me I was doing it. We were going to meet our boy. It was dim, quiet, reverent, a hospital, but also not at all like a hospital. I asked for a mirror. I grunted through two contractions. Allowing my body to stretch and finish the work of opening the rest of way gently and allowing Max to find his way. On the third contraction I pushed harder. His head sat on my perineum stretching the tissue gently. And on the fourth contraction he was born. In a gush of fluid Max was out and on my breast. It was March 27th, 6:55 am. I rubbed and dried him and Matt and I cried and kissed each other and our boy.
Eventually his umbilical cord was cut. The bloody sheets were replaced by clean ones. I was examined and found unscathed. My uterus did it’s work. My bleeding slowed. The placenta came. Max nursed and cried. Cried and nursed. I cried. Matt cried. We rejoiced in his safe arrival. And cried the fear and worry away. It had been a hard time. For him. And us.
He was weighed and measured, 10 pounds 2 ounces, 21 inches, and a huge 16 inch head. I put on the hat I’d knit for him.
Two and a half hours later we were on our way home. We were met by our four children and Staci who were anxiously waiting for us. We hugged. Cried. Laughed. It was a joyous reunion. The nine hours we were apart became zero. The exhaustion of days without sleep faded into the background. We were a family of seven.
Things quickly went back to normal. The pool was drained and put away. The traces of the birth that wasn’t meant to be were packed into a plastic tub. The champagne remained corked, the cake uncut. And I was left to sort through my feelings.
There is no video of his birth. There are no photos of those precious minutes. Those moments are imprinted only in our minds. It was not the birth we envisioned. It was not the birth I wanted. At first I felt selfish to say that, but in the end we recognize it’s not just a healthy mom and baby that matter, the journey matters too. Having a birth that goes differently than you expect is jarring to your mind, your heart, your soul. It’s an earthquake that rocks your foundation. I am giving myself time and space to grieve what I lost.
But in that space I also acknowledge that we made the best decision we could with the information we had. I labored for countless hours and I was strong and powerful. I pushed my 10 pound 2 ounce son out of my body, into the world, under my own power. It wasn’t in my kitchen. It wasn’t surrounded by my children and friends. Instead it was in a hospital with my husband quietly cheering me on, patting my head, kissing me sweetly. It was with my midwives telling me I was amazing, and a nurse I used to work with supporting me. It wasn’t in my bedroom but instead in a strange room where I’d caught many babies not my own. And I am proud of myself and of us. Proud that we knew when to say when. Proud that we didn’t commit so strong to something that we wanted for us that we couldn’t see where the line had to be drawn for Max. Proud that even under circumstances that weren’t ideal, my husband and I came together to welcome our son into this world the way he needed to come into it. And he did. On his terms.
I will mourn the birth I didn’t get. But I will celebrate the one I did get. I will cry seeing those around me have the chance to birth peacefully at home. But I will be still and know that Max had much to teach me about where peace can be found. I will grieve the loss of my power. But I will also acknowledge the power that is in making an educated, safe decision. I will allow the sadness of not sharing that moment with my children wash over me. But I will celebrate that we are a family of seven now, however we became that way. I will be quiet, and accept with grace what Max has taught me… not all things are meant to be under your control, and ultimately, sometimes giving up control is actually gaining it.
Maxwell Rocket Edelman, we welcome you son, into our family. We are grateful to you for what you’ve taught us about you and ourselves. We are grateful to you for the journey you took us on in the time and space of your birth and for the journey that lies ahead of us now. We are grateful Max for the end, for in the end, it is the beginning.
This week brought to you by… my new glider rocker?
Stats: Weeks pregnant: 35 and days (3 or 4 I think)
Waist : 49.5-50 at the bellybutton ish
And bust/hips (just for grins and giggles): 44 and 46 (+1).
Average number of times I get up to pee per night: FROWN
Size of the baby bean: like 20 inches. WHAT?!
Weight: 6 pounds (says my pregnancy app. HA)
Position:Vertex and lowish. Lots of cervical twinges (aka pain) from his head.
Other pregnancy related crap:
Emotional crap: As the birth nears I find myself being simultaneously nervous, excited and at peace. I’m seeing a therapist a few times to try to make sure I properly processed Ella’s birth and don’t carry any of that into Max’s. Ella’s birth was wonderful and in the weeks and months after it I felt nothing but empowered and truly FANTASTIC. But there is a truth there and it’s that complications are scary, no matter what they are. And in my case I think knowing what I know (as a nurse I mean) makes them both MORE frightening and also less frightening. If that makes sense (which it probably doesn’t). The important thing is to balance fear and faith. Max’s birth is HIS. He is not Ella and he deserves a mother and father, and birth team, that feel that way. What I love about birth (well one of the things) is that every birth experience is an opportunity for growth. And what I love about preparing for Max’s birth is that even at 37 years old I’m being humbled by my own insecurities and encouraged by my own capabilities. This journey is taking me exactly to where I need to be and I have faith in my body and Max and in the truth that his birth will be exactly what it’s supposed to be.
Physical crap: Same ol crap. Still with the pelvis. Still with the sciatica. Seeing the chiro weekly.
What I want to devour: baby greens. Maybe because I’m having a baby? Maybe because I’m weird. I’m not sure.
Supplements: Prenatal (from trader joes). Calcium-Magnesium (with D) pills (6, 3 morning and 3 night). Dr. Christopher’s Birth Prep (Took this with Ella and credit it, at least partly, with my minimal bleeding postpartum). Also Floradix (for iron) doesn’t taste awesome but does work. And I’ll be starting Evening Primrose borth oral and vaginal this week. Also eating LOTS of iron. Tons of meat (not usual for me) and Malt o Meal (which was 60% of a days serving!)
Activity: Been doing some walking (LIGHT) and birth ball sitting. Other than that trying not to strain.
Boy? Or girl?: BOY. I sure hope.
Name: Maxwell MAX!!
In other news:
BABY PREP:I bought him two towels. HAHAHA. I say hahah because I was CONSTANTLY at the store buying things for Ella and poor Max, he’s lucky to have clothes. I did finish another blanket for him though and bought two diaper covers since I’m not sure I’ll finish knitting any before he’s here.
Here’s the blanket:
And a bunny I made for Miss:
NOT being about to properly nest is taking a real toll on me emotionally. Do not underestimate the power of the female need to prepare her space. I think for me especially, because I’m birthing at home, I need my space to be cozy and tidy and CLEAN. I’ve been crocheting, knitting, working on curtains and cleaning drawers (one at a time). Anything I can do to feel like I’m doing something. Matt has been completely supportive of my neurosis (even buying a new vacuum).
Birth prep (new): Birthing kit and pool are both here and organized. We’ve done a trial run with the pool and it looks great. We went with the La Bassine this time (as opposed to renting an aqua doula). While we aren’t particularly excited about having to keep water warm we are excited about having inflatable sides. This was something I really wanted with Ella. The aqua doula is hard sided. Ick.
Tandem nursing update (BOOBS): Maybe because Ella is cutting her canines? BUT OUCH. I am SORE. She’s nursing a LOT and at night again. Sometimes the nursing literally makes me feel like I’m turning inside out or some other equally unpleasant feeling. Ouch. We are hanging in though. I’m really really REALLY looking forward to having milk again. I can’t wait to see what she does. Heh.
And here’s the belly photo(s):