Tuesday, May 4, 2010


By the time the second cat vomited, all I could do was sigh.

babywhumpus had already barfed three times. Twice on me. Once while I was holding and comforting him as he continued to hork milky yellow fluid onto my lap and chest. You don't just hold a baby's hair back; you're in it for the long haul.

Finn was not much of a spitter-upper. He had a couple of memorable instances, but he wasn't perpetually barfing as I hear some babies do. This was quite an anomaly. All his sicknesses so far have been of the upper respiratory variety. We were all dressed and almost out the door--on time-- when the first vomiting occurred. It was rather small, just the breast milk he just consumed in his morning pillow time. Pete had a shoot, so I elected to stay home. You don't bring a barfing baby to day care, no matter how much you have to do at the office. He nursed some more, then napped lightly, then barfed some more, then had a piece of bread, then sacked out on the couch for a couple of hours. I caught up on 30 Rock and Modern Family while I kept him from rolling off onto the floor.

When he woke, he seemed better, though a bit clingy, which it so be expected. That's when The Flood occurred. And it just kept coming. More than I would have thought my boy could hold. He cried and clung. We sat there cuddling, covered in barf, while I tried to console him. Eventually, I peeled off the vomitclothes, including my underwear, which was also soaked, and got into my bathrobe, still reeking. I stripped Finn down to his diaper.

Does Julia Roberts have to do stuff like this?

Now it's 4:30. Pete is home, and he and the boy are in the backyard frolicking and feeding the birds. I am going to have a Guinness while in a bubble bath while trying to read the horrible book I picked off my shelf. It's loathsome, but I don't know what to read next, having just finished a highly enjoyable Jasper Fforde novel. I grabbed "The Witching Hour" thinking it would be a crap read with a good story, like the Vampire Books, but instead, it's a plodding dirge. I am on page 90 of a hundred billion pages, and nothing has happened, I am not interested in any of the characters, and I want someone to hand this woman an action verb.

Any suggestions?

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