My baby is a vampire.

We already know that I don't like nursing. I've stuck with it because I know it is good for him and if I distract myself enough each time I feed him, I don't notice that I don't like it. But now I can'ti gnore it. He bites. With a vengeance. This morning he bit me so hard that I bled. I cried.

He laughed.

And my thought was... seriously!?! YOU LAUGH ABOUT MY PAIN?!! I don't think you understand, kid. Even as far back as a year ago, you were making me feel like a disgustingly overstuffed sausage.  You kicked my ribcage to mush. You robbed me of my dignity, making me pee when I sneezed. All summer long I was hot and sweaty and I couldn't breathe. Then, in the culmination of all things uncomfortable, you tore me a new one on my lady bits. Literally.

And, believe it or not, it didn't stop there! You took away my sleep. You've scratched my boobs to ribbons. You killed any semblance of personal hygeine, household cleanliness, presence of mind that I had. My social life is lacking and the costs to keep you are astronomical.

And I accept this. I will smile my way through that. I understand that you had no real say in any of those things... But when you intentionally BITE THE NIPPLE THAT FEEDS YOU, I put my foot down.

Or at least I would, if I knew how. I tried, really I did.  I've shouted OW! I've screamed NO! I've put away my boob and distracted you. Either you bawl or you laugh, with no consistent patterns. I am baffled. I don't know how to stop you, aside from weaning, which I really do not want to do yet.

So maybe, please, you would consider not biting me? Your new teeth are great and all but I cannot rock the bleeding nipples look. I shouldn't have to figure out how to get bloodstains out of my bras.

So, please?  Pretty please? I'll let you have a sip of my water. You can stay up late tonight. You can have two stories before bed. I'll let you take a bath without making you wash your hair. I won't leave you in any mechanical mothering machines all day!!

Can't we reach an agreement?

Jared, making waffles.

My fiance is a disaster in the kitchen. I accept this. Usually, I think it is funny. So tonight, when he came home from a study group and announced that he was going to make waffles and bacon for dinner, I said sure.

Jared making dinner means one of two things:
1. Jared will attempt to make dinner, get in over his head halfway through and yell for me to help. And by help, I mean finish whatever he is doing.
2. Jared attempts to make dinner, gets in over his head halfway through and refuses to ask for help. Food comes out not resembling food. We order pizza or have sandwiches.

Either way, I have to be on hand to field any variety of questions. Tonight, with the waffles, I expected difficulties. But, honestly, I thought he could do it. You mix the mix, pour it in the iron, wait for the light and DONE! But I've been wrong before.

Jared: Can I over mix this batter? It doesn't look right. Its lumpy.
Me: Yes. You can over mix. Its supposed to be lumpy.
Jared, 5 minutes later: Are you sure this looks right?
Me: Yes. IT IS FINE AND STOP MIXING IT YOU HAVE KILLED IT. IT IS DEAD. RIP, WAFFLE BATTER.

How do I get the bacon grease out of the pan?

How do I clean off the waffle iron? Do I have to get off these dried on bits?

Do I have to use a paper towel? What if I just used a rag? Where is a rag? Do we have any?

How do I know when the bacon is done? THIS DOESN"T LOOK LIKE BACON!

I walk into the kitchen, and it is hazy with smoke. "Do you have the flame on full power?" Yes. "Oh... You might not want to. Your bacon fat is burning." What? Why not?! (This is a man thing, I think. To use optimum  highest possible heat AT ALL TIMES.) It is a good thing our smoke alarm broke last weekend.

He asked how to do the bacon, and I told him to cut it in half with the poultry shears so it will fit in the pan better. I came out, and yes, he had cut it in half... But he was only doign two half pieces at a time. AKA, one whole strip of bacon. Good thing he cut it in half. Don't want to crowd the pan.

Five minutes later, after I told him he can add more, I came back into the kitchen at his frantic cries for help to find that he has, indeed, added more bacon to the pan. Except for some reason he felt like he had to cut it into approx 1 in. pieces. It was literally like frying up bacon bits.

Then, as soon as I walked out of the kitchen I hear him exclaim, "How do you do this all the time!?!!"

And at that point I realized I should just have him watch Doobie and try to save wahts left of dinner.