Tuesday, December 8, 2009

16 months and 1 day

That's how long we made it before Baby C threw up. Seriously, he's never thrown up before. Not once. He made up for it in a spectacular way sometime last night. We opened the door to wake him up this morning and were just about knocked over by the horrific smell emanating from his room. I initially thought it might be the worst diaper ever. I was wrong, it was worse that the worst diaper ever. When I looked inside the crib I thought I was going to throw up, myself.

It was everywhere. All over the sheet, both blanket, his pajamas, his stuffed kitty - it was like he had thrown up the entire contents of his stomach. Much of it was recognizable, which is gross on it's own, but even grosser when I realize that probably means that he threw up pretty soon after dinner, before it was completely digested. Poor kid must have slept in it for hours. He never woke up, never cried, never made a sound. I feel awful about it, but how could I have known?

I've never handled puke well, it always makes me want to puke. It's a vicious cycle, for real. So I gagged my way through cleaning up the chunky parts, stripping the bed, spraying the mess down with spray-and-wash, and getting it in the washer. All at 6:30 in the morning. C handled the bath, I brushed his teeth, and a few bunny crackers later, all was well. He didn't cry or whine throughout the whole ordeal, and was actually quite jovial when we went in there this morning. I don't think I would have been quite so perky if I had spent the night laying in a puddle of puke.

Just add that to the list of things that count towards my induction into Parenthood.

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