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It was hot. Our Las Vegas winter lasted all of three days this year. To many of you currently digging out of fifty feet of snow this sounds amazing. Let me tell you why it is not. After four months of triple digit heat I was really looking forward to wearing sweaters, drinking hot beverages all day, breathing in cool crisp air and NOT running my air conditioning (and paying $300 electric bills.) That is why this weekend, as the sun baked my roof and breezes were absolutely non-existent I was disappointed and irritable. I was in a tank top and shorts, I had the kids stripped down to diapers and I opened every window and door in the house. Then, they started crying. I had two babies asking for milk and I decided to nurse them both at once, which isn’t my favorite activity but it is a lot faster than taking turns. I positioned the necessary pillows, got Grant latched and tried to get Truman into place. He was jerking his head around and bumped Grant, who unlatched and started crying. Now that Grant was out of his way, Truman latched right on. He has zero regard for his brother when it comes to milkies. I told Truman to stop so I could get Grant fixed up. Truman burst into tears and started yelling at the baby to “GO-WAY!” Grant started screaming louder, and refused to latch. After all, it is difficult to realize there is a nipple in your mouth when said mouth is wide open in angry screams. The pillows started sliding. Grant started sinking slowly down my side. Truman began flailing around on the other side, still yelling for everyone to “go-way” and was now sobbing. As I reached to haul Grant back up on to the pillow, Truman decided that waiting was out of the question and made a wild attempt at shoving my boob into his mouth, baby brother be damned.

“Hey! You need to wait just a minute!” I repeated to Truman, who threw himself backwards and almost ended up on the floor. More rage. More crying. Grant felt like a furnace. (I do not understand how a tiny body can possibly radiate so much heat!) I was pouring sweat and still trying to settle him enough to get him latched. Truman’s face was soaked from tears, sticky with God knows what and his head wet with sweat. I was leaking milk all over the three of us and I honestly believed any second we were all just going to melt together in a massive puddle of sweat and milk and frustration. So, what did I do? Why, scream at my husband of course.

“Help Me!” Mike looked frozen in fear for a millisecond before he sprang to attention and grabbed Truman. He dodged the kicks and punches and squeezed him close trying to explain that he would get his turn in just a second. I jumped to my feet, cradling my poor, screaming, furnace baby and kicked the front door closed. I marched down the hall to the thermostat and switched the setting to cool. The display read 79 degrees. I furiously punched the down button until I had the temperature set at 62 degrees, pressed hold and heard the central air groan to life and start blowing. I marched back to the living room triumphantly and said, “There! It is 79 F@*%&ing degrees in this house!” Poor Mike. He had managed to get Truman calmed down and now he had his sweating, frazzled wife; breasts hanging out of her shirt at odd angles, hair stuck to her flushed face, stomping around the house like a moody teen-ager, blaming him for the weather.

“So…you turned the air on?” He was calm, so calm.
“YES. I. DID!” I was so, not calm.

I sat down huffing and puffing, gathered my head a tiny bit and positioned Grant. He latched sweetly. I dared look over at Truman who was happily snuggled against his Daddy’s chest and I released a breath I hadn’t been aware of holding. Mike raised his eyebrows a little and I instantly felt a wave of shame. I smiled and attempted to explain myself. He got it. He always gets me. Thank God, I married a forgiving man.