fireworks? giant daisies? purple air-titties? we report, you decide.
i would have wished you a happy fourth, y'all, but mr nice guy's independence has reached record lows these past seven-odd weeks so he frankly just didn't see what all the fireworks were about. (neither, frankly, did the baby, who we brought up to our roof-with-a-view for her first Fourth. just as the festivities got boomingly under way, she fell asleep. dumb baby.)
but the sky wasn't the only place for fireworks this past weekend. it seems there was no small about of burning, popping, fizzing and explodingness inside mrs nice guy's right breasticle. that's right: all this sporadic nursing and no sleeping has resulted in one excruciating case of Poison Boob.
mastitis, she is a cruel mistress. mrs nice guy went to bed on sunday not feeling well. halfway through the night she was burning up and sweating through the sheets, generally something i do not condone her doing without my assistance. she found a lump. it hurt her to nurse. good lord, do the satanic gods of parenting ever chill the fuck out?
anyway. it's probably just a backlogged milk duct. she felt a little better the next day. popped an advil. drank lots of water; pumped, expressed and hot-compressed. she got the midwife to prescribe some antibiotics -- but reserved those as a nuclear option, if things get worse.
thank goodness the fever is gone today, but there is still some pain apparently. she is nursing frequently, and as all the experts advise, in "different positions." i walked into the room once to find mrs nice guy on her back with the baby face down at the boob and her tiny legs up in mom's face. i also witnessed some bizarre yoga-style downward dog feeding contortion that i am not entirely convinced is legal in this state. oh man, i only wish i could post pictures of that, but this is not that kind of website. instead, you'll have to settle for this july four themed metaphorical abstract rendering of Poison Boob: