After giving Ollie a bottle, I changed his diaper. He spit up, and off went the clothes before he decided to do what little boys do best. No matter how ready you are with an extra diaper, a wipe, a pee pee teepee, or even a hand, it's always too late, always. I had urine on my shirt, his shirt, his blanket, and his face.
I changed his onesie again. He spit up again. A lot. But it magically disappeared, and I thought for one lucky moment that I had imagined it, until I picked him up and had a handful of it. I changed him again, this time into some irony:
Apparently, Oliver thought it was funny, too.
So he spit-up some more, and bought himself some naked time.
At this point, I heard Michael calling down the hall. "Where are you guys?" "The war zone," I replied. I pointed over to Exhibit A, the changing table.
I then called his attention to Exhibit B, a pile by the door of things he had christened that morning. A boppy cover, a crib sheet, a crib pad, a swaddling blanket, and three outfits.
It was only 7:00.
When I was brave enough to take my chances again, I put on another outfit. Michael took one look at the polka dots and said, "where is he?"
This morning, I just might raise the white flag and keep him naked.
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