Feb
18
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.
Feb
17
I blew the inch-thick coating of dust off my trusty Turbo Jam DVD today and spent about half an hour flailing around in my living room, feeling like a giant clumsy tool. Afterwards, I had that virtuous après-workout feeling that comes with a false sense of optimism and I was sure I’d be able to slip into my pre-pregnancy clothes, but NO. My body has the audacity to continue to be puffy and post-partumy, despite a full 30 minutes of Chalene Johnston’s supportive cries of “You are going to be able to wear whatever you want this summer!” (Really, my motivational needs aren’t so lofty; “Your stomach will look 56% less like a fleshy accordion this summer!” would work just fine.)
The really sucky thing is that the only way I was able to pursue my Return to Sender: Baby Fat goal was that JB was home and able to watch (ie, hold, carry, jiggle, feed, etc) Dylan. The presence of a newborn in the household has officially killed the few hours of free time I had at my disposal each day, especially as he starts to come out of that all-coma-all-the-time stage. I know it’s a big old no-shitter that a toddler + baby = less time to stare off into space dreaming about Torchwood’s Captain Jack Harkness, but damn. It’s kind of a bitter pill to have the intent to do something not particularly fun — like exercising — but being unable to do so because somebody wants to be lifted out of this boppy pillow right the hell NOW, woman, and warm me a bottle while you’re up.
Dylan may be 20 inches of ass-pain (oh god that sounds wrong), but I suppose he has his good points too. I mean, it’s pretty cute how he snorts like a congested pug when he’s upset. The top of his head does smell fairly awesome. And there is the whole incredible business of being a perfectly tiny, perfectly perfect human being who’s part of our little family and all. I’ll keep him, I guess.
PUNKS:
He’s a maniac, maniac, oh no!
Dylan, throwing his very first goat.
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