Vomitorium: as in, my whole house now smells like a ______.

My poor boy discovered this week that an insatiable appetite for milk can have dangerous consequences.  Gunky, smelly consequences, with an interestingly ‘cottage cheese’ texture. By golly, you have to be quick on your feet with a muslin to catch it before the sofa/his t-shirt/your t-shirt/the bedsheets take the brunt of it. I am eyeing the six I washed this morning and feeling distinctly unprepared for the night’s profusions.

Safer just to wear a muslin these days. Provided it goes with one's outfit.

Unfortunately, it seems we have an emetophobic on our hands: apart from the few occasions it takes him by surprise, whenever he throws up, he can’t bring himself to spit it out. So I’m woken up every twenty minutes or so by the sound of frantic gulping. The disgusted look on his little face when he does this is heartbreaking. And it’s not really helping with the ROUTINE, which began last night, and is comprised of the following:

1. Bath. Not every night: Henry still feels that a bath is the worst human atrocity since Andrew Lloyd Webber refused to get himself a face-lift.


But Tim and I prefer our babies clean, so we’ve compromised at three times a week.

2. Feed. Mostly to get over the horror of the bath.

3. Thorough and lengthy winding. Since the vomit made its appearance I’ve decided we aren’t winding him enough, so he’s now being jiggled for at least as long as he fed. The most effective winding sessions occur to the accompaniment of the Doctor Who theme tune.

4. Nappy change. He has usually managed to grace his bottom cloth with yet another mustard catastrophe in the time it takes to feed and burp.

5. Bed. Yes, in the crib, and everything. I’ve moved it right next to where I sleep so I can reach him without getting out of bed, and we leave a light on downstairs so I can see him.

6. Lather, rinse, repeat (except the bath; more than one a night would be overkill, I feel).

Yesterday’s debut of the ROUTINE went fairly well at first: I did the feeding, Tim did the burping, and Henry made a passable attempt at crib-sleeping. During the second shift, however, he spent so long choking resignedly on spit-up that in the end I got him out to make us both feel better. And then, yes, I confess: I cracked at 4.30am and put him in our bed so we could get some proper sleep. I don’t know whether he throws up less in our bed, or throws up less after 4.30am, but either way, we made it through to 7am without too much muslin action and felt better for it.

Peace at last. But NOT IN THE CRIB.

I hope his stomach settles down soon. Otherwise, I’m buying some Rennies.


Talk to me! I'll put the kettle on.

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