I decided I had looked at my unpolished nails for long enough – I try to keep them nice-looking with two coats of buff nail polish, practically at all times, but somehow I’d managed to neglect them for the past week or so. Every time I look down at my hands, I groan at my failure to fix this… I hate the way they look unpolished.
I save this task for late-nights… the house it quiet, and I have no one but myself to tend to (for once) and have little worry of being interrupted. I’ll have time to let them dry before bed. It’s usually a good plan. Even the late-night feed I usually give the baby before I retire for the evening should be easy to manage with slightly tacky nails, if need be. I’ve done it many, many times before.
And indeed, I hear the little screech of the Little Screecher around 11 PM, and wave my hands around in the air as I walk to fetch her. I’ve already got the milk warmed. I am so smart.
I settle my little darling in my lap, and give her the last repass before morning… she is nearly a year-and-a-half-old baby, but she still takes less milk after dinner than she needs to make it until morning, so we’re still in the habit of feeding her a little more before we hit the sack. This is MUCH better than waking up at, say, 5 AM, or 3 AM, or 2 AM… I’ll do anything within my power to avoid that kind of hell. She’s been a bit congested lately, and could always use another cuddle. Besides that, she’s just a baby, and I don’t mind having another little snuggle with her, late at night like this. She’s growing so fast as it is… and they’re only babies once, you know.
After she’s drained off the five ounces of warm goodness, I hold her for another minute, waiting for the soporific effect to work it’s sleep-making magic. Instead, she coughs.
She coughs again.
Cough, cough…
Cough, cough, cough… (wretch) gurgle-Blaaaaugh!!! (heave) gurgle-Blaaaaugh… (heave) Blaaaugh…
Ho. Li. Shit. The entire content of this baby’s stomach is in my lap, along with her. She looks a bit surprised. I, of course, am waiting for her head to start spinning around, and when it doesn’t, I look at the two of us, assessing the damage. Not as bad as it could be.
“Uh-oh…” she says, in that sing-song baby way.
“Uh-oh is right.” I scoop her up carefully, trying not to spill on the couch. I JUST washed the slipcover yesterday. Yesterday!! Fuck. I hate washing the couch slipcover. With two kids in the house, I’ve been here before, sadly. Too many times to count. I manage to get her to the bathroom without spilling a drop on the couch. All the offending vomit and my baby are cradled tightly in my arms.
I think of dumping her into the shower, but then I remember my still-drying nails and decide to just wipe her down instead. She’s practically sleeping on her feet anyway, so I make it quick.
It smells so gross… but I’m long-past feeling the need to wretch myself. One becomes immune to this kind of thing after a time.
Within three minutes, she is washed and changed into pink Paul Frank monkey pajamas, and I’m tucking her back into her crib. “G’night, Pukey.” I close the doors of her room behind me.
I have a look at my nails… still shining and beautiful, showing no marring evidence of struggle. Bulletproof and ready for battle tomorrow. I am so smart. (Okay, maybe lucky.)
Save for the sweater and soiled jammies I throw into the sink to soak, I am unscathed. Yay for me.
I consider putting her up for adoption, but all that paperwork… I went to bed instead.
G.G.
