Punk has recently begun giving any Anne Rice vampire a run for their money.
You guessed it. She's teething.
We'll be semi happily nursing along (see a prior blog about wrestling and nursing) and all of a sudden she attacks.
(The next reality show: When Babies Attack!)
My poor, defenseless nip, who is sacrificing herself for the greater good, is the unsuspecting victim of the frenzied, shark like fury of a biting baby.
I've only been through the beginninG stages of teething. By this time, the boys had moved on to bottle, sippie cups, and the greener pastures--and poops-- caused by baby food. Not Punk. She's clinging to the breast with all the ferocity of a mollusk.
No one is taking away her nip.
So now I'm stuck with the jaws of life clamped into my breast and I have no clue what to do. Squealing makes her laugh, which results in another taste. I don't want to scream and scare her, although she scares me to death when she gets that look in her eye!
So where does that leave a woman, other than sacrificing a pound of flesh to a baby barracuda who loves little meat with her milk.
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