spitting up

We've been dealing with Little Guy's Greco-Roman heritage since he was born. Not that either Big Guy or I are particularly Greek or Roman. Little Guy just seems to have this need to purge after eating. Yes, folks, we're talking about spit-up. And not just polite little dribbles of milky sweetness. Oh no, we run the gamet from the stealth trickle to the bet-I-can-hit-the-other-side-of-the-room exploding vomit. We worried about it for a while, but the pediatrician has assured us repeatedly that he's fine. It's "just a laundry issue". Which would be great if it were just his laundry. God knows the child has enough clothes to keep a small country covered for a year. I could change him every hour on the hour and still have a spare outfit in the diaperbag. The problem is that I'm running out of clothes. And our waterbill is on the rise. Never mind that we've seriously considered looking into gettinging laundry detergent directly from tanker trucks rather than wasting our time with those piddly warehouse size vats.

Then there's the sheer exhaustion of trying, trying, trying to contain it. When he was only taking in 2 oz at a time, it was kinda cute. "Belp" and a little frothiness appeared ever so sweetly at the corner of his mouth. But then again, poopy diapers were cute then, too. But this is getting out of control. We've tried it all. Breastfeeding, breast milk in the bottle, special mortgage-your-house-to-afford-it formula for babies prone to spit up. We've given him small amounts at a time, carefully patting his back to encouraged the bubbles out in between each portion; we've tried holding him upright while he eats (yah, try to nurse a sleepy baby like that! Ahhh, good times.), holding him upright after he's finished, bending him backwards and forwards at the waist.


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