Projectiles and Humiliations
I believe babies should come with this warning label: Product has the capacity to destroy civilization. My sweet five-week-old son’s true nature was revealed to us. He is a secret weapon capable of mass destruction. So far there are four known victims of his ability to emit waste material in the form of powerful projectiles in the past two weeks.
It all began one night when the baby began crying. I ran down the usual checklist. Diaper? Dry. Hungry? Rejects nipple. Lonely? Won't be comforted. Gas? I held him in my arms and trekked in tight little circles, patting, massaging, rocking.
I walked to my husband, who was washing up in the bathroom, held our son for him to see and said, "What do you think?"
Then it happened. Projectile vomiting. It took barely two seconds and one burp. We were covered; only our eyes poked through. The walls, the floors, the window, the bathroom mirror dripped gobs of overcooked porridge-like goo in a 360* pattern. Miraculously, the Oriental rug was spared. There was no warning, no mercy, no escape.
The pediatrician said it was a common occurrence but the odds of it happening again were small.
Little did she know.
One week later a different form of weapon was deployed. It was morning. The doorbell rang. I was alone; still in my pajamas but they were white satin and clean so I answered the door.
Standing there was a thoroughly unpleasant sight: a furniture refinisher who fancied himself an antiques dealer. In all the tumult of giving birth, I had forgotten to cancel the appointment.
"My, don't we look elegant," he declared. "Sleeping in today?" I mumbled something about having just had a baby.
"That's right, you were a bit potty when I saw you last."
Just then, my son started to cry. "Excuse me," I said. "Time to change the baby's diaper." I turned to escape.
He followed. The refinisher stood at my elbow chattering non-stop as I put my son on the changing table and removed his diaper. I reached for a wipe. Darn, the box was empty.
"Watch him for a second." I grabbed the new wipes, turned back to the changing table and...POW.
Projectile diarrhea...everywhere. The snow white pajamas were now a cowhide pattern. The brand new carpet looked like a crime scene. The wallpaper border with dancing white seals was now a modern art mess. Only El Obnoxiousness, barely six inches away, was unmarked. I swear the baby giggled.
I stood mute and still for a full minute. Slowly I turned to look at the refinisher.
He shook his head as he surveyed the damage. "My, my, my. We're not so elegant now, are we." So I threatened him with the used diaper and took delight in watching him run.
I was beginning to think my child didn't like me but it wasn't long before a new victim was found.
My father-in-law offered to watch the baby so Brad and I could have our first evening out. In my usual carefree manner I left him with only three pages of typed instructions. His last words to us were, "Relax. Everything will be fine. Hey, I raised three kids and they're all still alive, aren't they?" I was well behaved. I only called five times, just in case.
We knew something was terribly wrong when we returned. Every light was on in the house and we heard screaming and crying. It was my father-in-law. Terrified, I ran toward the nursery.
He was on his tiptoes, hopping quickly across the room while screaming "No. NO. NO!" He held his arms stiffly away from his body while cradling his grandson in his hands like a bomb he was desperate to get rid of yet afraid to drop. It looked like a scene from an old slapstick movie except for one thing...with every hop the baby was vomiting golden liquid. There was gold all over my father-in-law, the carpet and the changing table.
My father-in-law saw us gaping from the doorway. He stopped in mid-toe hop and shook his head sheepishly. "I think I bounced him too much after his bottle."
Of course I was very gracious. "Give him to me. Now."
A mother is never more competent than when she's saving her baby from someone’s oafish attempts to mother. I checked for fever (none), cleaned him up, changed his diaper, sheets and clothes and rocked him back to sleep in fifteen minutes.
Then, I went to deal with the "sitter". I found him slumped in a kitchen chair, hands hanging limply in front of his thighs, shoulders bowed in defeat. He looked at me with pleading eyes. "Please, don't leave me alone with him again."
With all the wisdom and experience five weeks of motherhood provided, I said, "Don't worry. You'll learn." Despite our best efforts, we all do.
It all began one night when the baby began crying. I ran down the usual checklist. Diaper? Dry. Hungry? Rejects nipple. Lonely? Won't be comforted. Gas? I held him in my arms and trekked in tight little circles, patting, massaging, rocking.
I walked to my husband, who was washing up in the bathroom, held our son for him to see and said, "What do you think?"
Then it happened. Projectile vomiting. It took barely two seconds and one burp. We were covered; only our eyes poked through. The walls, the floors, the window, the bathroom mirror dripped gobs of overcooked porridge-like goo in a 360* pattern. Miraculously, the Oriental rug was spared. There was no warning, no mercy, no escape.
The pediatrician said it was a common occurrence but the odds of it happening again were small.
Little did she know.
One week later a different form of weapon was deployed. It was morning. The doorbell rang. I was alone; still in my pajamas but they were white satin and clean so I answered the door.
Standing there was a thoroughly unpleasant sight: a furniture refinisher who fancied himself an antiques dealer. In all the tumult of giving birth, I had forgotten to cancel the appointment.
"My, don't we look elegant," he declared. "Sleeping in today?" I mumbled something about having just had a baby.
"That's right, you were a bit potty when I saw you last."
Just then, my son started to cry. "Excuse me," I said. "Time to change the baby's diaper." I turned to escape.
He followed. The refinisher stood at my elbow chattering non-stop as I put my son on the changing table and removed his diaper. I reached for a wipe. Darn, the box was empty.
"Watch him for a second." I grabbed the new wipes, turned back to the changing table and...POW.
Projectile diarrhea...everywhere. The snow white pajamas were now a cowhide pattern. The brand new carpet looked like a crime scene. The wallpaper border with dancing white seals was now a modern art mess. Only El Obnoxiousness, barely six inches away, was unmarked. I swear the baby giggled.
I stood mute and still for a full minute. Slowly I turned to look at the refinisher.
He shook his head as he surveyed the damage. "My, my, my. We're not so elegant now, are we." So I threatened him with the used diaper and took delight in watching him run.
I was beginning to think my child didn't like me but it wasn't long before a new victim was found.
My father-in-law offered to watch the baby so Brad and I could have our first evening out. In my usual carefree manner I left him with only three pages of typed instructions. His last words to us were, "Relax. Everything will be fine. Hey, I raised three kids and they're all still alive, aren't they?" I was well behaved. I only called five times, just in case.
We knew something was terribly wrong when we returned. Every light was on in the house and we heard screaming and crying. It was my father-in-law. Terrified, I ran toward the nursery.
He was on his tiptoes, hopping quickly across the room while screaming "No. NO. NO!" He held his arms stiffly away from his body while cradling his grandson in his hands like a bomb he was desperate to get rid of yet afraid to drop. It looked like a scene from an old slapstick movie except for one thing...with every hop the baby was vomiting golden liquid. There was gold all over my father-in-law, the carpet and the changing table.
My father-in-law saw us gaping from the doorway. He stopped in mid-toe hop and shook his head sheepishly. "I think I bounced him too much after his bottle."
Of course I was very gracious. "Give him to me. Now."
A mother is never more competent than when she's saving her baby from someone’s oafish attempts to mother. I checked for fever (none), cleaned him up, changed his diaper, sheets and clothes and rocked him back to sleep in fifteen minutes.
Then, I went to deal with the "sitter". I found him slumped in a kitchen chair, hands hanging limply in front of his thighs, shoulders bowed in defeat. He looked at me with pleading eyes. "Please, don't leave me alone with him again."
With all the wisdom and experience five weeks of motherhood provided, I said, "Don't worry. You'll learn." Despite our best efforts, we all do.