Baby flu. I haven't cleaned this much puke up since...well...ever. I thought earlier we may have to lay a tarp across the living room floor. And the bouncer. And the cot. And the...ok, well, we will just have to coat the house in plastic and be done with it. Coat Rukai too.
Wait, no, no, never mind that, we'll just set him up in the tub for a few days.
Damn, that's right, the tub brings too much drama. More later.
Why in the name of all that is good and holy did we lay carpeting in this house? Oh yes, that's right. We didn't have a child yet. But since we want to move we will now be sure to move to a place with laminate floors. Any carpeting in the new place is doomed, since we will unceremoniously rip it out and chuck it out the window. Even if it's new carpeting. Even if it's a balcony window. On the twenty-sixth floor of a skyscraper.
I've done that with pizza waaaaaaay back in the day but that's an altogether different story.
So I guess I'll need to buy a megaphone. Then again, maybe I can just precede the carpet toss with a few long shots off the five iron and shout 'fore!' really loudly to any wandering passers by. Fair warning and all. That surely must be set rule number four hundred and eight in the carpet toss health and safety manual, fifth edition, for insane puke cleaning parents only.
But carpeting will meet window will meet pavement. Of this I am certain. Because as I live and breathe, it is bloody hard to clean puke out of carpeting and I have had enough dry heaving the past 36 hours to last me till I hit the big 5-0. Thank God I bought all that upholstery cleaner before Rukai was born. It's the gift that keeps on giving.
Good news is at least I think he's stopped. Dioralyte, you goddess you. The blandness of baby rice and porridge. The calpol/calprofen one two punch. A cold washcloth draped over his head like a babushka followed by a hefty nap and we are back in the wonderful land of ninety-eight-point-six.
I refuse to translate fever to celsius even IF I live in England. It's the principle of the thing.
Back to the tub. Bub snubs the tub. The tub has consistently scared the shit out of bub. The tub is one of the hugest stressors in my life. You'd think I filled it with itching powder. Or hot lava. The way he squirms and slipslides away on the gallons of E45 churning through it like a white oil slick.
It's just water, dude.
'Just water,' he thinks. Then flips me the baby black panther salute and commences the squirmscream combo. 'Take that you washer woman,' he thinks. 'You just TRY and hold me.'
It's not fun.
Bathtime should be fun and it just has not been fun. And don't even get me started on trying to get that first nappy on while he's damp. Or wrapping him up in a towel. When you get one arm in the leg pops out. The leg in, the head cover falls off. This is why they invented wine. I'm sure of it.
They didn't say anything about this in all those baby books. But hell, at least I know the freaking out is just cos he's just a baby who likes being supported and warm in the tub and not because he's got every sensory issue on the planet. I know this because it's 2013 and in 2013 I am no longer afraid of what might be. I am committed to fixing the problems and not over egging the cause because some numpty doctor studied a sheet of stats and puked them out at us.
He's a baby. That is all. Pukeity puke puke. (Take your stats and shove them up your ass! Lalala.)
So I have been working on finding the solution. Over time this has meant we now own:
- One adult sized bathtub that scares the crap out of him.
- One newborn bathtub that he no longer fits into but actually seemed to like until about age 4 months. Damn.
- One newborn plastic bath support that jammed up against his bum and made him cry. Wouldn't you? Now don't lie. Yes, yes, I thought so.
- One bath seat / bath mat combo that he can't sit up in and has ripped, respectively. And guess what? It made him cry.
- One chaise lounge-style bath support that was too low in the water to fill the tub high enough to keep him warm. So he froze every bath and lo and be-flipping-hold -
It made him cry.
So then I'm on Amazon the other day, shoe shopping in the sales. As you do. And I think, 'must find a better bath support to get him stabilized in the tub so he stops freaking out.' Typey typey type and whaddayaknow I manage to find the very same tub as the first one he liked, in a bigger size.
Are you joking?! Where were you hiding this when I bought all that other shit?! It's even made by the same manufacturer. It's even the same shade of blue. It even goes well with the little fish bath mat I bought to keep him from slipping.
Hey hey! It arrived! I put him in it! He wasn't freaking out! In fact he was splashing his arms and having a whale of a time. But damn it all to hell, he keeps slipping. So one useless hand of mine holding him up and the other doing the one hand miracle wash while eating a sandwich and doing the online grocery order combo I learned back in month one and we are rocking and rolling.
Just hope he doesn't puke in it.
In other news, baby's first Christmas has come and gone. We nearly needed a U-Haul to bring everything home but managed to get it all in a giganto-box shoved in the back seat of the car once we removed the seventy-two tons of cardboard and other packaging.
But alas, such a spoiled little man. Spoiled and utterly and completely deserving. His smile lit up the room brighter than the lights on the tree. The videos are priceless. The blurted laugh on seeing his mister man 'Mr Happy' sleepsuit took the biscuit. Because when he is in a good mood, he IS Mr. Happy. So we laughed with him. We always do. He is such a light. Such a shining star. Such a schmooshy squidge.
Baby's first Christmas followed swiftly by baby's first big honking flu. Just over one month til baby's first birthday. Time still rolls.
Let it roll baby roll. As long as it's not a roll of carpet.