I am not a squeamish person, but I never imagined I would get so thoroughly baptized by barf - and still be ok- until this morning. This totally trumps the whole "ew, how can parents lick the sides of their kids' drooly ice cream cones?"
Last night Kiff was putting G. to bed as I chatted with our houseguests in the kitchen. "Can you come up? With a mop?" I got into the nursery and there was Kiff, holding an exhausted G., both of them drenched in projectile baby puke. And then I slipped on the floor.
I steadied myself. Thinking it was a one-shot deal, we put him to bed. When he woke up at 5am I brought him to the kitchen, only dimly aware that he was kind of crusty from being sick in his crib. He ate his blueberry and pear with yogurt. Then SPLASH. Everywhere.
I had to wake Kiff to hold him while I changed him, changed his sheet, threw his stuffed toy in the laundry, mopped the floor, took him into my arms on the sofa where the rest of the blueberry mixture found its home. We both passed out after I was done cleaning the second time, and Kiff took over, giving him a bottle of formula to rehydrate while I continued to snooze.
Together we take a bath. Clean and fresh as daisies. Laundry running as we read a couple of favorite books in the rocking chair. And then I figure out by his squirming that he is about to hurl again. But you can't aim a baby towards a bucket. They want to burrow into you as they are sick. Needless to say, the bath had been futile. I can still smell vomit in my nostrils.
The rest of the day we watched french cartoons and '70's superhero tv shows, as if I was the sick one. I spoon-feed our boy electrolyte juice on the sofa - surrounded, of course, by beach towels.
