Victims of Vomit

If parenthood has taught us anything it’s that babies vomit. A lot. It is almost as if Evi bides her time and meticulously chooses the right time to release her venom. For instance, I was changing her entire outfit after a particularly prolific episode. I had finally wrestled her into one of those button-up contraptions that requires an engineering degree and a clearly written instruction booklet (with pictures, please) when I noticed a maniacal glint in her wee, beady eye. As soon as I snapped the last of the four million buttons into place, she gave me one of her winning smiles and proceeded to barf all over the new ensemble. Lovely. Another instance found me securely wrapped in two burp cloths to ensure that my shirt would be stain free for at least 20 minutes out of the day. I put Evi up on my shoulder, checked to make sure all systems were go and began to tenderly pound on her back. No sooner had I landed the first gentle tap-tap did Evi bob her head left, then right and, miraculously avoiding the aforementioned burp cloths, formed her mouth to enable an accurate hit and expertly (and intentionally, I am convinced) landed the majority of her lunch down my shirt. Again, lovely. How much do I miss having a washer and dryer? Let me count the ways.