Let's backtrack to about a month ago. Bradley was about 8 weeks old, and my hubby was playing with him on the floor with the Baby Einstein Playmat (see Baby Boredom...it's seriously an amazing playmat). I had just fed little B, and he hadn't wanted to eat much as he was just coming off a cold, but I'd kinda forced him to keep feeding past his "comfort" point, thinking it would do him some good to get a decent dinner into him. Dinner being breast milk... just to clarify that for everyone. MISTAKE #1: Don't feed baby beyond what he wants to eat, even if it's only breast milk!!
Moving on to MISTAKE #2: Don't bounce baby when he's just had more breast milk than he wanted to eat, particularly if he's been sick recently! Drew picked Bradley up off the playmat, and was bouncing him lightly in his lap, when Bradley let out a little burp with follow-through, right onto Drew's sleeve. Drew was DISGUSTED. He gingerly held Bradley up and away from his lap so he couldn't do any more damage to his clothes, and turned to me with a wrinkled nose. "Quick quick quick! Gemme a spitty cloth! QUICK!"
I grinned to myself, thinking, That's nothing!! but I turned to grab the closest spitty cloth anyway. Just as I turned, Drew put baby down onto the Baby Einstein mat, and then the real deluge happened. It reminded me of a certain horror movie in which a child continuously vomits pea soup at her mother for at least 5 seconds. This is what is known as "Projectile Vomit" here in the Trenches of Motherhood...and once it's happened to you, you're never surprised by it again.
So the kid vomited in a crazy Vomit Arch for at least 5 seconds right onto his poor, unsuspecting father (who moments ago had been completely grossed out by a bit of spit-up on his sleeve). Just as the vomit subsided, a strange sound like a muffled fog horn erupted from the playmat. One look at Bradley's face could tell you that he was now devoid of whatever had been troubling him and he was a happy, happy little man.
One look at my husband's face revealed he was NOT a happy man, but in fact a newly educated one. He was no longer grossed out by the spit-up on his sleeve, but had now been intiated into the world of Projectile Vomit and lived to tell about it! His helpless eyes gazed up at me, pleading with me to DO something...ANYTHING!
...and I did what any self-respecting mother would do. I laughed at his expense. Only for a minute though. Then I took pity and picked up the little pukey/poopy monster and whisked him away to his room, giving instructions over my shoulder for my husband to run a bath...pronto!
Just as I walked into the baby room to clean up the remnants of the disaster from earlier, I hear a screech coming from the bathroom. It kinda went as follows:
(in a sing-song voice) Are you having fun with Daddy? Lookit those little legs! Kicky kicky kick! Aww, you smilin'? You smilin' at Daddy? (in a slightly more strangled tone) Why are you smilin'? What the......?! What'r you...uh....OH! Get him out! Get 'em out! KELLY! COME QUICK!! GETEMOUT GETEMOUT GETEMOOOOOOUT!!!!
I rush into the bathroom, stop dead in my tracks, take one look in the tub, and start laughing hysterically. I couldn't even pick up the baby from his frantic father, I was laughing so hard. There was my poor hubby, sitting waist-deep in water with the baby in his hands held about level with his head. Floating in the water were several mustard-coloured blobs, happily making their way around the tub. One in particular was headed for his "special no-no place" and I think that's when the screams started becoming MORE hysterical and I had to take the baby for his own safety as my husband started scrambling to get out of the tub before the blob could reach its target.
What I ended up with was a baby in my arms who was quite tired out, but extremely happy and comfortable, and a husband standing, dripping in the bathtub with mustard-yellow streaks down his legs looking completely like someone who has just learned way too much about something unpleasant. Conveniently, he was already standing in the shower, so he quickly cleaned up, refilled the bath, and re-bathed baby for bed. Thankfully, he was able to keep his sense of humour about the situation and looking back at it now, it's actually pretty hilarious, so much so that hopefully I won't get killed for
Fast-forward 4 weeks...back in the bath, having "Special Bathtime with Daddy" again (it's becoming a nightly ritual). I came in to see how they were doing, and looked at Bradley's face. He wasn't smiling, but instead, had a look of intense concentration. When I said this to Drew, he calmly looked at me and said, "That's because he's pooing." I was like, "Really?!" and sure enough, a long blob of Dijon made its way out from underneath my adorable baby boy and floated there, not knowing where to go in order to achieve maximum terror in the tub.
I looked back at my husband's face quickly, expecting a more frenzied response, but he calmly kept baby in the water for a moment to "make sure he was done", then went about cleaning him up, draining and cleaning the tub, refilling it and re-doing the bath without even seeming slightly ruffled.
Ahhh, how times have changed. We are more educated, and more experienced. I think it's official.
We are parents.
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