Ok, back to babies.
I’ve got three words for you: Projectile vomit. That’s two. I know. But “projectile” is so disgusting it counts twice.
Alexandra (that’s my baby) has never been much of a puker. Occasionally a little spit up would trickle out of her mouth. I’d freak out and call the doctor with a panicked, “My baby just threw up all over me!” I’d describe the scene. They’d put me on hold. Seven to ten minutes later they’d come back with an apathetic, “Oh, you. Yeah, she’s fine.” I was cool with that. We had a system.
And, then…well, hold on. I’ll get to the “and then” in a minute. First, let’s talk about breastfeeding. I stopped when she went to daycare. Before you go all Mayim Bialik on me you should know that it was like 80% because I couldn’t produce enough milk.
It was 100% because I hated it. And because you can’t drink. (I would think Vodka and breast milk would make a nice combo—like a little White Russian. No?)
Truth is, I was tricked into the whole thing by a bunch of Earth nurses in the hospital who told me it would make me lose weight faster. I’m sure they said other things but that’s all I heard. Sold!
What they didn’t tell me was that babies have X-ACTO Knives for gums and that I’d have to jam my boobs into plastic cones and milk myself three times a day.
They also didn’t mention that once the baby gets addicted to you, there’s no going back. You need Betty Ford to pry that Hoover vacuum off your tits. (And, speaking of Betty Ford, did I mention you can’t drink?)
I finally started supplementing with something called Nutramigen, which smells like old cheese wrapped in a dirty gym sock. And, at 30 bucks a can it’s as expensive as the ass it smells like. But she liked it so it was worth it.
And now for the “and then…”
I switched formulas.
The weird thing is that I didn’t consult my doctor first. I call him about nearly everything—including the time I worried that letting her watch a Walking Dead marathon would turn her into a psychopath, like Dexter. (I’m still not sure it won’t.)
But this, a legitimate question to ask a doctor, completely escaped me.
It started as a gurgle. And was quickly followed by a face I had only seen at the end of frat parties. And suddenly…
The funny thing about getting a face full of projectile vomit is that you really don’t know what hit you. For a split second, I thought the pipes burst.
So here’s the lesson: if you switch formulas abruptly, wear a poncho. You won’t regret it. The poncho, that is.
Ok Mayim. Go ahead. I deserve it.