Thursday, April 10, 2014

Some Days

This morning I got dressed to take Squishy to her weekly occupation therapy appointment.

It was a bad body morning.  Nothing I wanted to wear fit my super schmexy post pregnancy body.  It can be quite demoralizing to stand in front of your clothes hanging neatly in your closet and know not a single piece works with your current body.  I know this is temporary, but it still stings.

I finally put together a skirt/t-shirt combo that was weather appropriate (it was 100 degrees today) and kinda worked with my body.  Comfy and borderline stylish.  While not exactly good, it was close enough for me.

I dressed Squishy in her new pink romper and we were ready to go.

We were even ready to leave ten minutes before we had to leave.

It was a Thursday miracle.

Squishy took advantage of this unexpected down time by demanding a last minute bottle.  This was a good idea.  It is always better to show up for her therapies with a full tummy.  I encouraged her to drink as quickly a possible before we had to leave.  She drank three ounces then lost interest in the bottle with not a moment to lose.  It was time to walk out the door.

As I stood to leave, Squishy promptly threw up all three ounces down the front of my almost stylish shirt and skirt.

On the bright side nary a drop got on her romper.

I raced upstairs to change clothes.  No time to feel depressed about my body now, I grabbed a pair of pants and a t shirt that *almost* fit and changed in record time.

Into the car we went, and we arrived at our appointment with five minutes to spare.

Squishy took this time to drink the last ounce of her bottle.

She then pooped the most epic of epic poops (you were expecting more vomit weren't you).

Her diaper struggled valiantly, but it could not contain the beast within.

And there I was with baby poop on my shirt.  And my pants.  And her romper.

I cleaned her up in the bathroom, only to discover the extra outfit in the diaper bag was not weather appropriate.  It had long sleeves.  And little footie-feet.  And a big yellow stain on the back from a previous blow out.

Awesome.

I recently read an article that said a well packed diaper bag should include a new shirt for Mom, just in case.

They're not wrong.

But I obviously don't have a well-packed diaper bag (see above description of weather inappropriate back up baby outfit.  No more letting The Greatest "help" by packing the diaper bag.)

So I sat through her therapy session.  In ill fitting clothes because she puked on the clothes that did fit.  And did I mention I was covered in poop?

I'll laugh at this some day.

The sleepless nights.  The endless rocking of a cranky baby.  The poop, all the poop.  The never ever ever getting to pee alone.  These are the memories that become fuzzy around the edges from sleep deprivation.

I am deep in the trenches of babyhood.

I'd forgotten how many bodily fluids there were down here.

1 comment:

Tam said...

I hear that. I will never forgot the memorable occasion when the girls were swimming in a hotel pool (on vacation) and cutie boy was calmly sitting in his little portable car seat. He then proceded to have one of those epic blowouts. I put my hands around him to pick him up and realized I was two knuckles deep in poop. He had pooped an inch deep POOL of poop which he was now, of course, sitting in. So I have a 10 yr old, a 6 year old and a 3 yr old in the pool, two handfuls of poop and a baby sitting in a carseat full of poop. Husband? Nowhere to be found. I had to drag everyone up to the room and I put the baby, carseat and all in the bathtub which, thankfully, had one of those handheld nozzles. I just hosed the whole thing down. My son is now 11 and I am happy to no longer deal with ANYONE else's poop. Ha