barf, and for once, not mine

Babies spit up, this I knew.  I mean they do it in the movies so that must be a direct reflection of real life, right? What I didn’t know is to what extreme Rinn would take this.  If regurgitating your food was cool then Lindsay Lohan would still be relevant and Rinn would be requested for guest appearances on Live with Michael and Kelly or this Anderson Cooper fellow’s new show, which is terrible by the way. It’s not too late to give Nate Berkus his job back; at least he taught me how to throw a proper garden party and could wear the hell out of a cardigan, just saying.

In the beginning, Rinn’s spitting up was cause for concern.  Breast milk (boob or bottle,) soy formula, regular formula, gentle formula, you name it, it wasn’t staying down and we all know the dangers of bulimia, a gorgeous figure. I’m kidding, eating disorders are no joke.  I would grow less paranoid when he would consistently weigh in above the 89^th percentile.  Obviously the kid is getting all the nutrients he needs or his weight gain wouldn’t be on par with that of a defensive lineman. 

Now I just have to worry about him ruining all of his fancy baby clothes with his incessant spewing.  Baby vomit comes up white, no surprise there since white is the color of formula and that’s how it goes in but for some reason unbeknownst to me (clearly I’m not a scientist) it dries a putrid yellow.  And it stains.  If you find yourself trying to remove a spit up stain from a Ralph Lauren one piece you’re better off pouring yourself a huge glass of wine and setting the damn thing on fire. It’s only use now is kindling to keep you warm during those long Wisconsin winters.  The wine is just for comfort.  Trust me, once you’ve ruined enough $40 onesies, you’ll need it. Valium, while less accessible for those of us who aren’t pharmacists, will do in a pinch.

Enter: bibs. If you thought buying seemingly normal baby clothes was tough, try finding a baby bib without the slogan “if mommy says no, ask grandma” or “professional mess maker.” Rinn and I are still getting to know each other but I’m fairly certain he wouldn’t say anything that stupid. There’s also a DIY option out there where you can craft bibs out of old graphic tshirts, but I’m a new mom not Martha-freakin’-Stewart.  I’ve resolved to spend a few extra dollars on some socially acceptable bibs (usually solid colors) and leave it to my mother to pick up some really heinous ones at rummage sales (embroidered with ducks and dinosaurs), which will never leave the house OR be seen by company.  All bibs, embarrassing or not, are removed for sleeping (there’s that choking hazard everyone is always talking about) and certain photo ops.  I have a few snapshots where I’ve forgotten to take Rinn’s bib off and someday I’ll have to answer for that.

This all seems incredibly neurotic and exhausting now that I think about it.  And especially ironic coming from the girl who before-baby consistently drank too much Rumplemintz and subsequently threw up all over herself. Karma, you bitch you.

Pictured: a 48-hour supply of bibs. 

If we suddenly come into money (lottery, surprise inheritance, or otherwise) I'm hiring a laundress. Enough is enough.