I was a lucky, lucky Mommy. All three of my children were born healthy. All of them thrived on the breast milk that I was lucky enough to produce for them. They grew, they matured, they got stronger every day.
I was SO. LUCKY!
I mean…yeah, I was lucky that they were healthy. I was very lucky that they were able to thrive on breast milk. I was lucky that they were able to latch, and that I was able to provide what they needed.
I have always known how wonderful and blessed those early days were.
But now I have an entirely different perspective.
Now I understand that I was one of God’s chosen people because none of my children….not a single one of the three….was a puker.
Of course, they would occasionally burp and give up a tiny little blop of milky goop. But it was so insignificant that we were all able to politely ignore it and just move on.
I never had one of those babies who gurbled out 3 ounces of cheesy milky slime for every 5 ounces consumed.
I mean, I knew about those kids, of course. I remember when my first nephew was born. My sister-in-law described having to turn over her rocking chair once a week to chip away at the dried crud. I have always known that super pukers exist.
It’s just that I have never before had to deal with one!
When Ellie was a baby, she was a delicate, gentle, once in a while regurgitator. The kind of baby that needed a tiny little hanky to handle her rare blurps.
But now we have Johnny.
How do I describe my sweet, happy Johnny?
I love him! I adore him! I exalt at his very existence!
Johnny is a BIG BOY. He weighs almost 18 pounds at four months. He eats. A lot. Some days the little guy sucks down 14 ounces of breast milk, pumped by his goddess of a mother.
Then he joyfully squeezes his eyes shut and poops out 6 ounces of yellow slime into and out of his diaper, and right up to his armpits.
And that’s OK. I can handle poop.
But after every 4 ounces of nice warm Mommy milk in a perfectly sterile bottle? The little
monster boy immediately pukes up a stream of warm, stringy, mucousy milk. All over whatever clean shirt he is wearing.
Nonni then scoops him up, washes him off, puts on new clothes and settles back into her rocking chair.
Where said adorable boy pukes up a pile of yogurt all over the two of us.
Back to the bathroom, back to the washcloth, back to the bedroom for fresh clothes for both Nonni and boy.
And into the chair we settle, very, very gently. We sigh. We snuggle.
And approximately 10 minutes later, something that smells strangely like feta cheese comes flying out of that sweet little mouth and coats the two of us.
What can I say?
I love my grandson more than I could ever explain.
But I can no longer eat goat cheese. Or feta. Or brie.
I can no longer tolerate the smell of butter or cream. (gag) Or the thought of blue cheese dressing.
Cottage cheese? Fuggetaboutit.
I plan to steam clean my living room furniture and rugs with vinegar this weekend.
I am considering the idea of a cork for next week.
Gosh, I love this little guy!!!!