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Like a Milk Machine

Candy's Column

Like a Milk Machine

I have sat down in front of my computer with the intention to write this column no fewer than twenty-five-billion times today.  Every damn time, I would first procrastinate by checking out my friends’ Facebook status updates — Carrie is eating zucchini blueberry bread, in case you were wondering — and then, just when I would finally THINK about actually stringing a sentence together, I would hear this:

*Suck fingers*  *Suck fingers*  *Suck fingers*  “WAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!”

That would be my daughter letting me know it’s time to chow down.  My sweet, precious, magical and MIND-BLOWINGLY RAVENOUS four-week-old daughter.  My daughter who DOES.  NOT.  STOP.  EATING.  I swear, if we were to see life through Skylar’s point of view, à la Look Who’s Talking, I would just be one giant boob walking around.  Only instead of using Roseanne’s voice, Skylar’s thoughts would be voiced by Charlie Sheen.  Something tells me his point of view is eerily similar to a hungry newborn’s.  Also because Roseanne has a voice made for silent films.

“Who, ME??”

I know what you’re thinking, and yes, twenty-five-billion is an awful lot of feedings.  But it’s true:  Skylar demands to be fed almost every hour during the day.  Which equals…well, maybe not twenty-five-billion, exactly, but enough to get her in shape to challenge Joey Chestnut in the 2010 Hot Dog Eating Contest.

Although I am thankful Skye has a healthy appetite and I love the bonding time, I’m beginning to feel like Clara the Cow.  Only smellier because my daughter’s insatiability rarely allows time for a shower.

Oh well.  This is why God invented Handi Wipes.  For new mothers with no time for luxuries like bathing.

“What is this ‘shower’ thing of which you speak?”

So I walk around our house, shirt perpetually half-open, because I know it’s just a matter of time before Skye will demand more.  That used to be my husband’s dream — that I would walk around the house half-naked without a second thought — only I’m pretty sure his dream didn’t include a stained full-coverage nursing bra and baby stuck to my breast.  Sex-ay.

Oh well.  This is why God invented online porn.  For disillusioned new fathers.

Because sharing is caring, as I tell my kids. (Except my wine. Never my wine.)
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Candy Kirby is the founder of The Laughing Stork and a professional fun-maker who will never stop chasing her lifelong dream: to find the Pomeranian or porn star after whom her parents must have named her. A humor columnist for Disney, Nickelodeon, Scary Mommy, Reductress and Redbook, she also used to be a staff writer for the soap opera, The Bold and the Beautiful, where she penned many scripts featuring prolonged heated stares and countless “Who’s the Daddy?” story lines. Candy lives in Los Angeles with her husband, two young kids and three rescue Persian cats, the latter of whom are the real brains behind this operation (so send all complaints to them).

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