My little Monkey is a champion puker. If throwing up was an Olympic sport, I think he would definitely medal. And I am oddly, unexpectedly, quite jealous of his skills.
When I throw up my whole body seems to convulse. My back arches like a pissed off cat, I have to brace myself against something (usually the floor), and a really loud, horrifying retch sound comes out of my throat (along with the contents of my stomach) that I am always sure the neighbors heard and have decided to report it as a domestic disturbance. And it takes me a minimum of 5 hurls to get it all out, after which I am usually sobbing.
But Monkey is a delicate, genteel, efficient puker. He barely moves, there's almost no sound (which I have to admit has me alarmed because I envision him puking in his sleep and choking on it and being all scared and stuff in the 12 seconds it takes me to wake up to his gaggy noises and run into his room), he almost always manages to empty his gut on the first try, and he never cries...he just looks startled and confused in a cute but smelly way.
Now of course I hate it when he throws up, and not just because it means I have to wash the couch cushion covers and the throw pillow and his clothes and my clothes and the dog and mop the floor...I hate it because it means his tummy was upset, and now his tummy is empty and upset, and anytime I suspect my little man is uncomfortable in any way it disrupts the balance of my universe. I am not a helicopter parent by any means (and will probably blog thoroughly about that at some point) but I do want him to feel good and be healthy and happy all the time.
And also, the smell of partially digested breastmilk is pretty gross. Not as gross as poop, but pretty gross.
a teeny blurb about me
- another clueless mom
- I am a 32 year old first time mom who is continually shocked at how much those baby books and doulas and midwives don't tell you about having and raising kids...let me tell you, it's a lot!
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