Monday, June 13, 2011
They call him "The Lawn Sprinkler"
We used to laugh when Charlie was a baby because he spit up so much. Every single night for several months he used to hurl right over my shoulder onto the carpet as I carried him back to bed after his 4:00 feeding in EXACTLY the same crusty, black, place. His daycare teachers used to run out of spare outfits for him because he threw up so much during the day. I once took him home in only a diaper and socks because not only had he exhausted his personal supply of outfits, he had gone through all the emergency, vagrant baby clothes too (our kids have come home many times in what I call the "pajama pants of shame"--a faded pink pair of girls' pajamas with a lipstick and shopping motif that, I assume, they dress little boys in when their mothers repeatedly forget to pack extra clothes. Or I might just be paranoid.)
Anyway, James makes Charlie look like a reborn in the spitting up department.
Last night he got me four times while I was putting him to bed. Just when I'd get one spot mopped up, he'd hit me again. I felt like I was on Double Dare. I was so grossed out when I finally got to peel my saturated shirt off. And I don't get grossed out easily. I have THREE BOYS.
Today he was in the church nursery all morning so that I could work at Vacation Bible School (VBS). I got a message that he was hungry, so I ducked into nursery and fed him. When I sat him up to burp him after the first side he sprayed at least twelve cups of milk all over my leg, the chair, and the floor.
His teacher, a veteran with four kids of her own, matter-of-factly handed me a fistful of paper towels to clean up. Then I fed him the other side and handed him off.
When I came back to check on him he had "spit up" (slash projectile vomited like a Kappa Delta on Spring Break) four more times and was wearing different clothes. They weren't so matter-of-fact that time.
"I bet he's hungry again. That was a LOT of spit-up" they told me.
I nodded and picked him up.
"Like, a LOT" with wide eyes.
I gave him a cuddle and looked into his eyes. He spit up on my arm. Twice.
"OK, well maybe I should get that checked out..." I laughed, then put him back down to play so I could finish up for the day.
When I fed him at home he did a lot better, but that time a friend called on the phone and while I talked he sat propped up on the couch between sides. That seemed to help. As did the giant man-burp I got out of him after the first side. But then he spitup all over the Boppy right after I took that picture.
It doesn't seem to be phasing him. He's very happy and growing well and eats on a regular schedule, so maybe I should just take ponchos to the nursery staff tomorrow for the next performance of "Stand By Me: A One Baby Show"? Because I think they're all sitting in the splash zone.