PART THE FIRST: ANGRY BIRD IS ANGRY, MENACING
Scene from Ezra's play kitchen this morning:
OH YEAH? FUCK YOU, BIRD.
PART THE SECOND: ATTACK OF THE TURBO HORK
I am feeling better. But also wondering if Baby Ike had a touch of whatever THAT was, because dear God. IN HEAVEN, EVEN. The happy spitting/reflux/spewomatic reached epic proportions yesterday. Truly Exorcist-levels of bullshitvomit.
At some point in the afternoon I gave up on remaining upright and functional and crawled in bed with Ike, hoping he would maybe just let me lie there and doze for awhile if I kept my shirt off and let him drain my life force to his heart's content. He would nurse, then barf. Nurse, barf, nurse, barf. I kept staggering down the hall for more burp rags until I literally made him a nest out of a fresh half-dozen of the heavy duty ones, and still. STILL. We ended up scooting around the bed in search of a fresh dry patch, which would soon be similarly befouled.
It was disgusting. It put every hork-o-fest thus far to shame. And then he was all, "Well. That just happened. I'm hungry. More milk, please." And on and on it went. Jason came home and I handed him the baby and hid in the other room, counted back from three and...
HIM: HOLY SHIT IKE.
There is no point to this anecdote. I just needed someone else to be as grossed out as I was. Did it work?
(He has his four-month check-up early next week. We'll of course check his weight gain [which has always been perfect] and I will again try to explain that no, seriously, this kid's a milk geyser, HALP. Though last time he projectile puked all over my shoes right in front of the doctor and she was like, "Yep. I remember those days! They were fun!" And then handed me some paper towels.)
PART THE THIRD: HELP ME OUT HERE.
ME: Ike has Spock eyebrows.
ME: Spock eyebrows! Like Spock!
ME: SIGH. He only has the up part. Not the down part. SPOCK EYEBROWS.
HIM: Up part? What are you talking about?
This is not a difficult concept, amirite?