Warning: Do not read this entry if you are in any way squeamish. The following is definitely NOT rated Carrie (which means barf figures prominently).
Romi isn't one of those babies who spits up a lot, unless he has a cold. When his nose gets stuffed up and he coughs, his superior gag reflex comes to the surface and he can barf with the best of 'em. We learned this in December when we had the first run in with his runny nose, and you would have thought we had mastered the learning curve. Alas, that is so not so.
Last Friday, Rob went off to the synagogue to cook and I stayed at home with the Moochkie. We had a great day, napping together, playing on the floor, eating, laughing. It was wonderful, aside from the occasional nose-wiping freak-out session. As Shabbat drew near and knowing I was on my own, I decided to get a jump on getting us both ready. As we traversed the house, I was in schlumpy house clothes and Romi wore naught but a diaper. And out of nowhere, you guessed it: barf. Mostly on me. Some on him. A little on the floor.
As a new mother, I looked down at the liberal amount of formula mixed with phlegm that now covered my front. I looked at the modest amount on the kid who generated the mess. And I looked at the small amount on my tile floor. Which took priority? I must admit, for a moment I was paralyzed with indecision. My new mommy instincts, however, soon took over and I used diaper wipes to gently clean my baby from his own barf. Next, I went to my room, put Romala down on the floor and took off my barf-covered shirt. What I forgot, however, was that the best plan would be to NOT turn it inside out, so I merely succeeded in transferring the offending lumpy liquid to my hair. Seeing as I certainly didn't have time for a shower I did the next best thing and used a washcloth to scrape it off my head and prayed that I didn't smell too badly. Next. I threw some Shabbat clothes on both of us and headed out to tackle the family room floor, only to discover that I had waited too long and the dog had kindly taken care of it for me.
Oh, shut up. I told you not to read this if you were squeamish.
Romi isn't one of those babies who spits up a lot, unless he has a cold. When his nose gets stuffed up and he coughs, his superior gag reflex comes to the surface and he can barf with the best of 'em. We learned this in December when we had the first run in with his runny nose, and you would have thought we had mastered the learning curve. Alas, that is so not so.
Last Friday, Rob went off to the synagogue to cook and I stayed at home with the Moochkie. We had a great day, napping together, playing on the floor, eating, laughing. It was wonderful, aside from the occasional nose-wiping freak-out session. As Shabbat drew near and knowing I was on my own, I decided to get a jump on getting us both ready. As we traversed the house, I was in schlumpy house clothes and Romi wore naught but a diaper. And out of nowhere, you guessed it: barf. Mostly on me. Some on him. A little on the floor.
As a new mother, I looked down at the liberal amount of formula mixed with phlegm that now covered my front. I looked at the modest amount on the kid who generated the mess. And I looked at the small amount on my tile floor. Which took priority? I must admit, for a moment I was paralyzed with indecision. My new mommy instincts, however, soon took over and I used diaper wipes to gently clean my baby from his own barf. Next, I went to my room, put Romala down on the floor and took off my barf-covered shirt. What I forgot, however, was that the best plan would be to NOT turn it inside out, so I merely succeeded in transferring the offending lumpy liquid to my hair. Seeing as I certainly didn't have time for a shower I did the next best thing and used a washcloth to scrape it off my head and prayed that I didn't smell too badly. Next. I threw some Shabbat clothes on both of us and headed out to tackle the family room floor, only to discover that I had waited too long and the dog had kindly taken care of it for me.
Oh, shut up. I told you not to read this if you were squeamish.
1 comment:
This takes me back to the days when Joel and I thought it would just be so much easier to poor the bottle on ourselves without actually feeding it to Sydney and eliminate the middleman! Then we'd still be a mess but she would not have had to go through the violent process of barfing!
Although, isn't amazing how a kid can barf and then instantly have the happiest smile cuz s/he feel so much better!!
Welcome to barfdom and true parenthood!
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