Until last week, when baby Diana vomited in my mouth. Believe me, I wish I was exaggerating about this one, but it actually happened.
I had been leaning over to kiss my precious babe, who was looking particularly cherubic and delectable while lying on the bed. As my lips touched her little bow-shaped mouth... blagh! There was sick in my mouth and small chunks of partially digested milk on my face. And there was nothing even remotely cute about it.
On the plus side, however, her diet is still milk-only, which means that her spit-up is less offensive than someone who'd been eating, say, chilli. So I guess it could have been worse.
In baby D's defence, this is probably my fault and the result of my 'feeding is the solution to everything' mentality. While baby D doesn't need a nipple to fall asleep anymore like she did in the earlier weeks, I'm willing to bet money that it's still her favourite place in the whole world to hang out, whether she wants a snack or just needs a little R&R.
I'm also expressing on a regular basis (I recommend using a breast pump to anyone who's feeling particularly boastful one day; it will instantly eliminate all traces of ego and reduce you to feeling like a barely human milk machine). Expressing has been bad for my self-esteem but amazing for other reasons: it's gotten my milk supply way up which pretty much guarantees that I can knock Diana into a drunk-like, milk-induced stupor at most points during the day. But I also think that between my overflowing udders and the expressed bottle she gets most days, it means baby D is consuming much more milk than she used to, and it's no surprise that some of it is getting posseted and vomited straight back up.
All this drinking does of course have benefits, namely, amazing baby chubbiness of late. Baby D has been looking positively pudge-alicious, having acquired an additional chin and thigh roll on our trip to New York. If she were to become a mobster (obviously not the profession I'm hoping for), we're all set with her nickname: "The Cheeks."
But the week wasn't all bad: there was plenty of giggling and playing and chatting and squishing of Diana's chubby thighs. I suppose that's one of the brilliant things about life with a newborn, these moments of extreme cuteness tempered by extreme yuckiness.
And, of course, everything in between.
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