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Archives from 2002-2006

Yesterday was JB’s first day back to work and my first day alone with both children. Things started off with a bang —or more appropriately, a BLEURGH— at about 6 AM when Dylan horked the entirety of his morning feeding all over our bed, JB’s half-asleep body in particular. After JB left for the office, I managed to get Riley into his clothes and fed before Dylan woke up, at which point I fed the baby and strapped him in the front carrier where he instantly fell asleep. Feeling like SuperMom, I strode confidently down the hall to the living room, where I was assaulted by the reek of toddler poo. I briefly fantasized about a glorious day in the future when at least one kid would start crapping somewhere other than his own pants, and took Riley to his room to change him. Wearing Dylan on my front, I lifted Riley onto his low futon bed and bent over him to deal with his diaper. At some point during this process I felt my back register an Official Complaint, but since I was committed to the task at hand I ignored it, until 5 minutes later back in the living room I tried to pick Riley up to look out the window at a garbage truck outside and my back went, FUCK YOU. (Those of you who issued dire warnings about exercising are probably entitled to at least one loud obnoxious I toooold you so, although I think the problem had more to do with my weak abdominal muscles and overtaxed back.)

My back went out so thoroughly I couldn’t even straighten up. I took Dylan out of the carrier and realized I had another diaper to contend with, so I lurched down to the baby’s changing table while crouched over like Quasimodo. Riley scampered behind, demanding to be put on our bed so he could “sing to Diwwan”. Cute, except I couldn’t lift him, and his reaction to that was to have himself a big old screaming tantrum while I wrestled Dylan’s diaper off. It was only after I had the diaper undone and the baby’s poopy butt exposed that I realized the wipes container was empty, so holding Dylan’s feet in one hand (so he wouldn’t get them covered in poo) I had to flail blindly for the wipes refill package in a drawer, drag it out with one fingernail, and tear it open with my teeth, MEANWHILE Riley had wandered over to the bedroom door and closed it and was now yelling for me to OPEN DA DOOR MOMMY, over and over, and then of course Dylan peed all over everything and in the midst of getting him wiped up and dried and changing his onesie I lunged — still hunched over — to the door for a second to let Riley out, and which point he went to the outside of the door, shut it, and started screaming to be LET BACK IN.

A few minutes later I sent an email S.O.S. to JB, which basically read DOT DOT DOT DASH DASH DASH HALP. And my husband, to whom I do not attribute nearly enough credit on a regular basis, came home from work early to help me, because I was 1) an invalid at that point, thanks to my fubar’d back and 2) halfway to being Britney-level insane.

Today has been better. Which is good, because it is my birthday — 34, my GOD — and all I wanted for my Very Special Day was a little less chaos, thank you very much. Well, that and maybe a dessert containing at least forty thousand calories.

I don’t remember Riley being a big spitter-upper. Sure, there were a few memorable occasions when he sprayed everything within twenty feet with his mighty milk-barf, and there was that time I had to scrape half-digested formula out of my shoelaces afterwards, but overall he mostly kept his meals to himself.

Dylan, on the other hand, is determined to drown this entire household in baby hork. I do ten thousand loads of laundry a day, thanks to this kid. Sometimes he just spits up a little, sometimes he spits up a lot, sometimes he projectile hurls across the entire room.

Frankly, it’s fucking gross. THERE I SAID IT. I love my kid but this is gross.

He doesn’t seem to be in any discomfort, his doctor wasn’t worried (“All kids spit up, some just do it more than others,” she said with a shrug), we burp him like we’re supposed to and I’ve even switched to “Sensitive Tummies” formula. What else can I do, other than look ahead to some wonderful date in the future when I can go a whole hour at a time without having someone throw up down my shirt?

Any suggestions from those of you who have also dealt with a bulimic baby more than welcome. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to dig dried barf out of my LAPTOP KEYBOARD.

The only part of his body I can trust not to unpredictably hose me down with bodily fluids. Chomp chomp.

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