Lately I've found myself wearing a wife beater around the house at all hours. This has less to do with us becoming a white trash family (hell, just today I got mad when NASCAR ran late and caused The Simpsons to not record), and more to do with Molly's astounding proclivity to spit up at any and all available opportunities. The only real rule she abides by when determining when to let loose with a torrent of vomit is that it must always be when you have just gotten her into a new outfit literally ten seconds ago, and when you yourself are also fully dressed. I believe she also awards herself bonus points if she manages to get some on the carpet as well (double for the couch), and she has a special addendum to the rule that when visiting grandparents or other relations, she absolutely, positively cannot show up there wearing an outfit they have bought her, no matter how many clothes she has to spit up on within five minutes of when you need to leave to run through them all. I swear to you, this child is gifted, and that's not a compliment. As the son of a health teacher, I'm well aware of the dangers of bulimia, but I foolishly assumed that wasn't anything I'd need to be on the lookout for for at least another decade. Nope. If she could fly, it would be exactly like living in an aviary, and I think you know what I mean.
The worst part is that I can't even complain too much because everything else is great: she's incredibly cute (unbiased opinion, of course), generally good-tempered, loves to smile and laugh, has recently taken to sleeping through the night again, and is in general quite healthy. On the list of things that could go wrong it's small potatoes... but dammit, I really didn't want to get that steam cleaner back out again.
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