Collin was not happy. He’d been fussy all day. I’d just given him his dinner bottle and sat down with him on my lap to watch a little TV and he still didn’t seem all there.
He turns on my knee, looks at me, and opens his mouth.
Time Dialates. The following 2 seconds, sidereal, took a good minute, in the theatre of my mind.
His Mouth opens.
White glop begins to erupt.
I note it’s got a pretty good angle, it’s gonna cover some ground. It’s kinda off-white.
Oh, look, it’s coming at me. (it’s still suspended in mid-air, such is the way of the human mind in a crisis situation.)
I think “Oh. This won’t clean easy.”
By now it’s started to impact my leg and part of the leather couch. It’s warm. ugh. Time resumes normal cadence. I hand him (nearly clean, himself) to my wife, stand up, and start to peel off my rapidly cooling, slimy, smelly, curdled formula enriched clothing.
By the time I’m done with the rug shampooer, I come up stairs to see the happiest bubbliest kid, all squeaky clean and wrapped in a soft fuzzy towel. He went to sleep there on the floor.
I’m doing crib room duty at church on Christmas Eve, early service. I’m all dressed up, ready for the late service, in a maxi-dress (why yes, it was the 70’s) with an openwork lace insert on the shoulders. I’m carrying around a fussy baby, with an old diaper burp rag on my shoulder, patting him on the back trying to get him to burp,when he does. Copiously. Totally missing the burp rag and even the solid fabric of my dress, but accurately targeting the lacework, resulting in everything in his belly dripping right down under my clothes and soaking me.
And then he turns his little face towards me and smiles a milky smile and giggles with glee because he feels so much better!
Walk into the dining room and see my 18-year-old son standing on the table trying to swing from the chandelier. It had already started to come out of the ceiling. I thought this only happened on TV sitcoms.
Same boy, a little older, decided to open the TV cabinet (think hotel-style tall TV cabinet with the TV on a tray that can be pulled out) and pull out the TV to watch it. My wife was resting in bed upstairs with son number two, newborn. I of course was in the restroom. I hear a huge crash and my son crying. I rush out of there and see the whole TV cabinet, including the TV and all the other equipment (DVD player, CD player, receiver, VCR player, cable TV box) lying on the floor. The cabinet had completely tipped over. I’m still amazed he managed to get out from under the thing before it hit the ground. He was basically unharmed. The TV didn’t break, I assume son # 1 broke the TV’s fall so I congratulated him on that. Grandma had quite a long speech on the subject of “Didn’t I tell you that you should anchor that thing to the wall?”
Since he’s a little older in the next story I suspect that was 18 months Hilarious typo though, I was right there picturing the 20yr old sitting on the floor crying after dumping the tv on the floor.
As Moonlitherial guessed, I used the word “year” in its unusual meaning of “month”.
There’s also the time when I thought that son # 2 (three years old at the time) was going to be arrested in a museum.
Early childhood is FULL of anxiety. Are they developing right? Is there anything wrong? AM I BEING AN AWFUL PARENT FOR NOT BUYING BABY BACH?!?!?
So we’re at the Pediatrician for one of the early checkups. Wife is already fuming because the Nurse said twin A seems ‘kinda floppy’, now they’re testing Twin B’s hearing.
When your test subject can’t yet speak, you have to modify your testing criteria, in this case, the Nurse stands behind the kid and snaps her finger’s behind each ear to see which way the kid’s head turns.
Snap snap on the left side. Nothing.
Snap snap on the right side. Nothing.
Nurse looks, concernedly, at me and Mom.
Snap snap, nothing.
BRRRAP! Boy lets out a burp with tonal qualities that defy the container it escapes from. He smacks his lips twice. Then passes the hearing test with flying colors.
I had just finished nursing him and supplementing with formula. I think he was maybe 5-6 months old - just beginning to realize that his hands were useful for doing things. He wasn’t much of a spitter-upper, so you can imagine my surprise when he calmly leans over, grasps the neckline of my v-neck t-shirt, pulls it open and barfs directly into my bra between my breasts. He smiles, leans back and pats my shirt. It was all so freaking neat.
During labor as the anesthesiologist was coming in to give me my epidural, the nurse realized there was an air bubble in the lumbar portion of the bed. She presses down hard, I bounce up. She does it again. I’m fairly patient because, hell, I’m 7 cm dilated. I’ve got bigger problems. Until she tosses a sheet over my hips. The janitor comes in and also presses down. I bounce up again. Repeat a few times. Finally, he leaves. I’m relieved thinking, “Ooh - goody. Epidural time!” Then, the janitor comes back in with the facilities manager, who does the exact same thing. The whole time, I’m trying to concentrate through my contractions. Being bounced into the air every few seconds isn’t helping. Finally, past the point of caring who sees my vagina, I turn and look over my shoulder and say, “I’m okay with an audience, but can you give me the epidural now? I think I’m going to need to push soon.” The facilities manager and janitor have the good grace to look alarmed and run away, the nurse stabs the air bubble with something I couldn’t see, I get my epidural just in time and my daughter shows up maybe 45 minutes to an hour later. Ta-dah! (Unfortunately, the epidural didn’t work too well - I still felt the episiotomy and her coming out - it was like the proverbial ring of fire, but well worth it.)
Friends coming over for dinner. 3 year old Dweezil starts hurling while friends are en route. Friends wind up cooking dinner for us (it was already prepared, just needed to be grilled) and watching the baby while we’re dealing with sick toddler. OK, it was funny at the time, too.
Moon Unit, bare-bottomed due to potty training attempt, potty seat in front of TV in my bedroom. Leaves the room for a moment… Comes back in, says “uh-oh, poo poo”. I plunked her onto the potty chair in front of the TV and go to investigate. Yep, poop on the carpet in her bedroom. I return to TV room and find she’s coated herself in the residue. I plunk her in the bathtub and dash in and out of her bedroom trying to clean up the mess on the carpet, while overseeing her to make sure she doesn’t drown (it’s about 8 feet and the door was open; she wasn’t alone in there for more than 30 seconds at a time). As I grab tissues-full of the detritus and toss them into the toilet, it occurs to me I should flush.
The toilet overflows. Yep, my kid can clog a toilet remotely.
Oh - and those of you who’ve gotten drenched in barf: I actually would deliberately turn a barfing child so that he/she soaked me… versus the floor that is. See, clothes and people are easier to clean that carpet.
Fairly recent: almost three-year old heads upstairs. This is fine- he’s allowed upstairs on his own. I can hear him singing to himself, and he seems to be reading Hey Diddle Diddle. I’m impressed to hear him doing it correctly. I smile and continue nursing baby. Mr. Lissar heads upstairs to give toddler his bath and put him to bed.
Mr. Lissar shouts, in a strained voice, “Bring the mop”.
When I get upstairs Gnat tells me, proudly, “I read the book, Mummy!” Holding up a board book smeared with…
We think he’d pooped while at the top of the stairs, taken his pants off, and trailed, leaking, all over his room, the hall, and the bathroom. And all over the book. And his comfort toy frog.
Thank the lord we don’t have carpet. It was epic.
The baby (almost eight months old now) went through a stage around three months old where he puked down the front of my shirt at least once a day every day for a couple of weeks. Breastmilk, could be worse.
Have we had too many barf stories yet? Cause I have a couple more…
When my oldest was about 1 1/2, we were driving over to a hardware store and a stomach bug hit him. Huge mess. I was closer to the store than home, though, so I got him out, stripped him naked, and wrapped him up in my sweater (while I was doing this, a guy pulled in next to me and said, “ooooh, I’ve been there”). I took him into the store and bought a bunch of cleaning supplies so we could at least be in good enough shape to get home. I got about a billion dirty looks and one “helpful” comment from a store employee about how my baby might be a little cold (it was a cool day, but not even coat weather).
Same kid…I brought his baby brother home from the hospital. I knelt down with the baby and asked my oldest to come over and take a closer look at our new addition. He walked right up to us, looked me straight in the eyes, and projectile vomited all over me and his little brother. He thinks this story is really funny now (he’s 7 and appreciates a good puke story).
When my daughter was a few weeks old, we made a run to Babies R Us for something or other. However, we forgot the diaper bag. Fortunately, the BRU has “mother’s rooms” complete with two changing tables, complimentary diapers, and a TV to watch while sitting around on the couch feeding.
Daughter suddenly stinks, so I take her in, put her on the table, and start stripping her down. Just as I take off her diaper, she projectile poops, getting her clothes, most of the changing table, and the TV. I look at the disaster area trying to figure out what to do next. I decide that job one is getting the baby clean and covered, so I move to the other table to finish the job. Guess what - she wasn’t done. Now that table is also covered in runny yellow breastfed baby poop, with some on the floor to boot. I scoot her up the table and get a diaper on her. Then I set her in her stroller and start trying to clean the room, with the quarter-pack or so of wipes left in the room. I had managed to surface-clean the tables and some of the TV when I ran out. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on your point of view, at that point an employee arrived. I pointed out the remaining spots that needed to be cleaned, explained that I’d tried to do it but used all their wipes, and fled with my baby. I’d dumped her outfit into a plastic bag - I think we bought another one to get her to the car and home in.
Hilarious typo though, I was right there picturing the 20yr old sitting on the floor crying after dumping the tv on the floor.