Teeny Manolo

And all he got was some sore boobs.

Yeah, been there, done that, dude.

It seems Ragnar Bengtsson flew completely beneath my radar when it was announced that the 26 year old student was attempting to produce enough milk to breastfeed his child.  He was pumping at 3-hour intervals every day, hoping  to stimulate lactation.

I had no idea that it was even possible for men to lactate, although it is normally something that occurs when undergoing specific types of hormone therapy.  And even then, at most they produce only a drop or two, not nearly enough to feed a hungry infant.

Mr. Bengtsson began his quest for milk in order to promote a better “bonding” experience with his child and future children.  I sort of applaud his intent, if not perhaps agreeing with his method. He is quoted as saying, “Anything that doesn’t do any harm is worth trying out.”

We won’t count the sore boobs as harm, right Mr. Bengtsson?

Posting a teensy bit about the newest addition to our family.

The Munchinette was born at the very civilized hour of 9:33am on November 5. She came in at a healthy but petite 7lbs, 6oz. She currently has curly brown hair and blue eyes. Both of those could change, I’m guessing.

I had a repeat C-section, and according to the anesthesiologist, I set some sort of World Record in Vomiting During the Giving of Life. I guess my body does not react well to anesthesia, and I even told the doctor prior to the surgery that I had some similar issues with the Munchkin, although not nearly as bad. Even the anti-nausea medication he put into my drug cocktail didn’t work. Boo.

So, I’m slightly sleep deprived, even though I am lucky enough to have a wonderful husband who is taking two months off work to help out with my recovery and just generally making sure that the Munchkin gets to school on time and wearing appropriate clothing.

Here’s to the many sleepless nights to come!

It seems that I went much too easy on you with the last game, and dr. nic was able to instantly guess that our infamous blonde was none other than Paris Hilton. Congratulations! You’ve won a collection of crazy headbands and tiaras just like Paris loves to sport. Wear them with, uh, pride…

Today’s young boy hit his peak a while back, but you DO know who he is…

This article in USA Today states that researchers have found that parents respond quickly to baby names that are on the rise in popularity, versus names that are waning in popularity.

Now, as someone who is still currently wrestling with a name for her impending baby girl, I find that odd. It is a sort of lemming-like mentality that I find actually somewhat disturbing.  Where is the ability to think for oneself?  Just because everyone is naming their kid Brittany, why would someone feel that they have to as well?

You see, I don’t want my daughter to have a name that everyone else has.   It’s not that I must have some quirky, arty name that sets her far apart from the mundane masses.  I actually quite like some of the really popular names. It’s just that I don’t wish for her to be Samantha J. along with Samantha G. and Samantha W. in her classroom.

I’ve spoken to many people who said that was their biggest peeve about their name, that they had to share it with someone all through school.  I didn’t have that problem, but I could see how it would be annoying to always have your last initial tacked on to your identity.

So to latch on to a name that everyone else is using is counter-intuitive to my way of thinking.

But then again, no one has accused me lately of thinking in a particularly straight manner.

Last week I wanted to know if you would ever consider foreign adoption, and a whopping 73% of you responded with a “yes.” Only 15% would limit their adoption to within the US, and a tiny percentage said that adoption was not in the cards for them.

Today, with the story of this woman rattling around in my brain, I’m wondering what you think of the largely self-regulated fertility industry.

All right, I was trying not to talk about some of the crazy-ass names that celebrities have been coming up with lately, but Ellen Pompeo’s choice was the straw that broke Glinda’s back. And that saying is apt, because at this point, I sort of look like a reverse camel, with the big bump being on the tummy instead of on the back. I hope that makes sense. It makes sense to me, but lately, that isn’t saying a whole lot.

First, Nicole Richie and Joel Madden’s choice of name for their son made me do a mental double-take. Sparrow? Are they for serious? As in tiny, frail, ubiquitous brown bird? I read somewhere that some (most likely) self-proclaimed “naming expert” praised them for their originality and inventiveness, saying that since Captain Jack Sparrow’s name was, well, Sparrow, that suddenly Sparrow stands for manliness. Sorry to break it to everyone, but no, it does not. Hearing the word sparrow brings images of a beady-eyed, greedy little thing that likes to pick up other people’s discarded popcorn and whatnot off the ground.

And as for Ellen, her choice was somewhat literary, but confusing nonetheless. Is she not aware of the extremely famous and popular book Stellaluna? You know, the one about the bat? Granted, she is a lovely and wonderful bat, but still a bat nonetheless. Yes, that is exactly the mental picture I want everyone to have in mind when they say my name. It’s like naming your child “Ramona Quimby Pompeo” or “Harriet the Spy Pompeo.” It just doesn’t work.

At least we have Sarah Michelle Prinze, who chose the almost old-fashioned Charlotte Grace.   Count at least one child of actor parents who will not have to face life with some crazy name their parents decided to saddle them with in the name of “art” or “creativity.”

Oh what a cutie!

But I must admit my utter shock that with her father being the billionaire CEO of PPR, Valentina is wearing Crocs.

No, I’m not talking about wearing the same dress. Nosirree, this one is waaaay worse than that. I’m not even going to count something like sleeping with someone else’s spouse as a faux pas, that’s practically a crime.

I’m talking about asking a woman if she’s pregnant. And then finding out she isn’t.

I made this mistake once. It took only once, with the withering glare of hatred directed my well-intentioned way, to cure me of ever even thinking of posing that question again.

I remember it all very clearly. I was at a salon getting my hair done, and one of the stylist’s daughters came in with two of her kids. She was very thin, except for a belly that protruded out much like a small basketball. She looked exactly like I have seen so many of my very thin pregnant women friends look, and so I stupidly airily asked her mother when she was due.

I’m not kidding when I swear I saw lightining bolts come ouf of her mom’s eyes.

“She’s not pregnant!” she snapped. I wanted to suddenly have all my hair covering my face a la Thing, but unfortunately it was pulled up in foils. I had entered dangerous territory and there was nowhere to hide.

“Oh, uh, sorry!” I stuttered. “She’s just so trim except for the…” I weakly trailed off. The situation was dire, and there was no way to save it. I was toast. She knew it and I knew it. Luckily, I didn’t like that salon very much, and never went back to face the source of my shame.  I know, I know, I’m a big coward.

Now being seven months pregnant, I can see other women looking at my tummy quizzically. Is she or isn’t she? She looks like she might be…

But I know that no one is going to ask. They all know better.

Last week I was curious about your level of germophobia, and the answers I got were pretty interesting.  Only one percent of you admitted to being a “constant cleaner” but I’m betting there are more than that.  Thirty five percent were choosy about the germs they worried about, and thirty three percent wanted a fairly high level of cleanliness.

I think I fall into the “choosy” category.  For instance, I hate shoes in the house.  My family and I never wear our shoes into the house, and that may be in part because I have light berber carpeting and I don’t want it to be filthy looking.  The other part is that I cringe when I think of all the things we step in while wearing shoes.  But, I definitely pick my battles when it comes to germs.

As for today, let me introduce you to the newest toy controversy, Bebe Gloton.  She is marketed and sold exclusively in Spain, and her main purpose is to pretend to breastfeed from your little girl, who has donned a vest with flower pasties on it.  The doll latches onto the pasties and proceeds to “feed” from them.