So it appears that puke is totally the new poop when it comes to mommyblogging. Or mommytweeting. Which is kind of the same thing, only with less monetizing. YET.
This morning I asked Teh Twitter if anyone had any experience with a "happy spitter" (which I swear is an actual name for an actual thing) and at what age could I possibly expect Ike to stop barfing all the freaking time.
The response was INSANE. I should've hashtagged that shit. Five hours later and we are still talking about it. So if you've been waiting for a reason to finally join Twitter, well. This is probably not it. This is probably the opposite of it.
So. The "happy spitter." There are so many things wrong with that term I don't even know where to start. For one, Ike does not "spit up." That's what my other babies did -- the occasional burp with a side of cheese. "Oopsies! Spit-uppsies!" you might say in response, because having babies makes you say stupid shit like that. And then you grab a burp rag and gently dab at the side of their mouth and marvel at your ability to cope so well with someone else's bodily fluid. You must be some kind of saint, and thus deserving of cake.
No. Ike does not "spit up." Ike vomits. Upchucks. Barfs. Yaks. Hurls. Horks. Releases the brechen.
We now use "cottage cheese" almost exclusively as a verb.
STOP LAUGHING IT'S NOT FUNNY.
I guess I will cede the "happy" part, though usually it's more like "nonchalant reverse milk river" or "casual vector-spew." He's not in pain or even mildly uncomfortable. Just happy and sated and then eh, I'm a little over-full, lemme just put some of that back where I got it from, in your cleavage. You know, for later.
MY BRA IS NOT YOUR DOGGIE BAG, KID.
I have mentioned the barfing at every. single. appointment, and he has in fact, demonstrated it live and in person at the pediatrician's office, but...it's nothing. Just an immature, still-developing stomach and neck-tube. He's fine. Look at those chins! And the chubby arms! And the 3-6-month-sized body at barely 11 weeks old! And the cheerful blue diaper that actually contains a baffling number of hidden adjustment options that completely overwhelm me because I swear I have to let out the leg holes and the waist after every washing because he's just growing that fast.
The doctor usually just points at the scale as assurance that Ike is fine, and then offers me some baby wipes for the fresh crud all over my shoes.
BARE FEET BE WHERE IT'S AT, ANYWAY
It happens with breast milk and formula (Jason ran out of frozen milk approximately 10 minutes after I left for San Diego, even though I THOUGHT I'd done pretty well on the pumping front) and any variety of bottle. There's no indication that it's an allergy or sensitivity, as we're rash- and congestion-free and he is, indeed, a happy, non-fussy baby. It happens if I nurse him as upright as possible or lying down. One side at a time or both. It happens after three good burps and keeping him awake for 30 minutes...or if I wuss out and let him fall asleep on the boob because IT DOESN'T MAKE A DIFFERENCE ANYWAY, HE IS GOING TO PUKE DOWN MY SHIRT IN FIVE. FOUR. THREE. TWO. WHOMP THERE IT IS.
So I'm trying to resign myself to life with a ticking sludge bomb of a baby, and to be grateful that it isn't really anything more than a semi-embarrassing inconvenience, as opposed to an honest-to-God feeding or health problem. He eats, he burps, he yaks an impressive amount of it back up. We have stacks of ugly cloth diaper burp rags in every room, I use them to wallpaper the torso of anyone who volunteers to hold him for more than a minute, and also to wipe down the floor, the couch, the backs of people's legs when he manages to projectile vomit a good three inches to the left of EVERY RAG IN THE WORLD.
I...sleep on them, you guys, because while I'll wash a dozen outfits a day (for him AND me) plus bibs and rags and milk-crusty swaddling blankets, I just have to draw the line at stripping and remaking the bed that often.
YEAH, IMMA GONNA HAVE TO JUDGE YOU A LITTLE ON THAT ONE.
Twitter tells me that it will get better around four months or six or nine or 12. Or when we start solids or when he's sitting up or not until he's walking or weans completely but it will probably come back when he crawls and he might always be that kid who laughs too hard or runs around too much at a birthday party and pukes up rainbow-colored cake icing all over someone else's brand-new carpet.
SOUNDS AWESOME YAY CAN'T WAIT SEND MOAR RAGS AND SOME TARPS.
I realize it's entirely cliche and trite to end a post like this with a sentence like "it's a good thing he's so cute" but...he really is so cute. I mind a little but not even as much as this entry would indicate. And also I don't really have time for anything BUT cliche and trite because Ike and I need to take a bath. Again.
I BET YOU CAN GUESS WHY. ALSO WHERE IS MY CAKE?