After feeding my little girl, I always give her a good pat on the back. Because hey, she rocks at breastfeeding…oh yeah and the whole belching thing.
So I have a kid with reflux. Big deal. After listening to her wake up hoarse, burpy (is that a word?), red, leaky, and fussy every night for a few weeks, we finally decided it was time for some meds. Problem solved. Right?
Nah, not so much.
Sure, the heartburn is sayonara, but I swear my child is trying to practice for the spitup competition at the 2016 Olympics in Rio. Just this morning, she projectiled all over the floor, my back, and herself. Then she proceeded to projectile all over herself again and as an added bonus, aimed good for the rock n play.
Hello laundry. Goodbye free arms.
After changing her, I thought about changing my shirt. Why? I asked myself, She’s just going to do it again thirty minutes from now.
Then my thoughts ran like a mommy with ten seconds to spare for a potty break.
Well what if someone shows up?
Eh, I’m sure they won’t see it. It’s on my back right? I could always walk backwards.
Man, her spitup smells odd.
I should change, I smell.
There’s no point. I’m wearing the same yoga pants I’ve been wearing for a week. That’s grosser.
If someone shows up, my mouse-nest hair will be more interesting to look at than my stained backside, right?
How long have I been wearing this shirt? A day? Four?
God I hope nobody shows up.
If I change, I’ll just have to change every time she does it, and then I’ll have to do more laundry.
Crap…I should put the rock n play insert in the wash.
Screw it. I’ll change when I shower.
Whenever that will be…
After this wonderful little conversation with myself, I finally threw the rock n play in and tied the Moby around myself so Go would have somewhere to sleep. She currently resides, snoring, in the Kangaroo hold.
Needless to say, the one time I didn’t change–for fear that she would just spit up on me again–she hasn’t spit up on me once since.
But I’m a ninja.