All or mostly about mothering.

As I hinted a few weeks ago, nursing has been a train wreck. Now I'd say it's upgraded to a partially hazardous golf cart crash. So three cheers for improvement, right? I think part of the problem is that Clara's priorities do not revolve around eating—a completely foreign concept for me. (I come from a loooong line of good eaters. We Purcells know precisely what's important in this life, and that's a good, hearty meal.)

But no. She'd rather be doing this:

Or this:

Either is about ten times more preferable than eating, I guess. It's all good though. I don't mind that it sometimes takes close to two hours to feed her. In fact—I love spending close to two hours each time. I can't really think of anything else worth doing during each of those two hours.

In other news, sometimes I call her Cute-ems McGee. 

Meanwhile—our super fish. Which, lately I'm more convinced than ever that they are indeed just that. For the first three weeks after the little miss was born, I may or may not have remembered to feed them. Then, for two weeks after that I may or may not have remembered to feed them 80% of the time.

Didn't even phase them. 
...Or did it? (cue dramatic music)
Yesterday we noticed that one of our guppies has developed an enormous belly. (No offense, little guy.) I panicked and thought: it's pregnant! Which, the last thing I need is our super-guppies procreating an entire generation of supers. And besides—one infant in this household is enough for me. A bushel of bouncing baby guppies would really do me in. (Just think of all the late night feedings!)

However, after some quick investigating on Google—I don't think I'll need to worry about raising any super-guppy progeny. No—it's probably much more likely that the little fellow has a bloated belly from starvation. Or even more likely—caught some sort of dreadful disease all thanks to my shameful indifference to tank cleanliness. I'll probably have to answer to this when I die.

Now then. Aren't you glad you stopped by?