When Edie urped an entire meal all over the brand-new outfit my mom and I had just put her in, I pushed away the disappointment that several ounces of milk was now dripping down the front of her onesie and my mom’s arm. I could care less about the extra laundry; I regretted the meal no longer in Edie’s belly.
I’m still trying to get over the feeling that my milk is in short supply. After almost two months of cringing through every minute she nursed, I saw each drop that she drank as a victory. We recently had another scare that she wasn’t gaining enough weight, which has me even more on edge.
I want to capture the drops that trickle down Edith’s chin after a feeding. I scrape out the fatty milk stuck to the sides of bottles like a kid licks the ice cream bowl clean so none is wasted. Seeing any milk spill, let alone cascading as spit-up, makes me want to dissolve. Thankfully, Edie Mae has spit up only about a half-dozen times since she was born.
The morning that Edie urped on her striped onesie, instead of ruing her volcanic reflexes, I laughed. Edie seemed unperturbed; she just looked at me with her signature serious face as the drool-milk pooled where my mom’s arm met Edith’s belly. When I got Edie to the nursery for a quick wardrobe change she smiled, too.
She didn’t care that spit-up had soaked through her clothes. Maybe she liked the feel of the fuzzy changing pad on her bare skin or the face-to-face time with her mama. As I slipped a pink and ruffled onesie over her head, she squealed and enjoyed the moment. I did, too.