After several days of pop-tart binging, Amy has finally turned into a pop-tart. Yes, your face really can freeze that way and yes, you can actually turn into that thing you just won’t quit eating. I would like to spend my day calling Kellogg’s – oh, who I am I kidding? I never call anyone any more. I should spend my day e-mailing Kellogg’s for help with Amy. “I have a pop-tart for a daughter.” Maybe I should just e-mail Willy Wonka. No, today I’m busy searching for my breasts. They did their jobs and nursed my children for more than a year each, which is a combined total of more than 5 years of use and abuse. Apparently last night’s all-night nursing marathon with Evan just sent them over the edge. Sometime after 5 a.m., when I finally dozed off, my breasts made their carefully planned escape. I am hopeful that they haven’t yet left the house, but as soon as I can peel my body out of this chair I plan to resume the search for my missing breasts. Maybe this evening I will have time to help my daughter the pop-tart. On the other hand, after nursing all night for the zillionth night in a row, Evan might be hungry for something solid and what goes better with milk than pop-tarts?