Fussy McGurglebarf

Imagine eating pizza until you threw up, and then eating pizza until you threw up, and then eating pizza... until you threw up. You would either be a freshman girl during pledge week or a newborn.

Finn has entered into the milky realm of regular spit ups. My baby smells like cheese.

We now have four beings in the house who barf on a regular basis. Three of them are cats: one with hairballs, one with an eating disorder, and one who pukes greenery. Finn has them beat in frequency. The video was just a prelude. We are true parents now: we don't groom, sleep, or leave the house. Pete has been walking around in a spit up stained Celtics tee shirt for two days, and I change clothes on a regular basis, like after he barfs down my arm, all down his front, as I sit on the couch, holding gurgly baby while cheesy fluid pools in my waistband. Today he exploded in a world of hurl, in the middle of a meal. No warning, no fanfare, no pauses, just Splash! and all the work of the previous ten minutes was soaking into the pillow and running down his face and chest. I startled, and Pete took him to shush him and tell him it was all OK. To be fair, he seemed fine and was back on the boob horse minutes later.

He also explodes into screams frequently, and they are loud and make me crazy. Pete bears it in stride, taking his sweet time changing the diaper or rinsing the soapy bum while Finn turns red and is screaming so loudly he barely makes sound. I am crawling out of my skin. I just want to help him--make it better. Fix it. "Babies cry," says Pete sagely.

Duh.

But this isn't "babies," this is my baby, and he spent his first two months on this earth in the hospital. It's hard for me to say "babies cry," and calmly deal with the frothing mess. I have to, of course, so I do, but I have been known to snatch him from the changing pad before he gets a diaper cover and whoosh him onto the boob because Pete is taking too long, and I can't stand it, pee be damned.