Blech

This morning, Ellie spit up on me at the audiologist's. Let's be clear. She's not a milk-fed newborn anymore. The line between throw up and spit up is quite faint and has more to do with volume and velocity than content.

This afternoon, Ellie and I were on the floor together playing in front of a mirror. She was kissing her reflection. Suddenly, she stopped and leaned in toward me. "Oh, how sweet!" I thought. "She's going to kiss me now."

She "spit" up on my mouth, which was not entirely closed.

Later this afternoon, Ellie and I took my car to the dealership for its overdue "regularly" scheduled maintenance. We had no sooner gotten ourselves settled onto our blanket in the waiting room with a snack then - diarrhea everywhere. This was more like newborn poo than grown-up diarrhea, but it was still no picnic.

And it was everywhere. Her pants and shirt were heavy with it. It was on her hands and feet. All the way up her back. And I hadn't brought an extra outfit.

I wiped her down and put on a fresh diaper on a changing pad on our blanket on the floor. At least I had plenty of wipes. But the dealership people didn't like us there very much. They reminded me a couple of times about the diaper changing station in the bathroom. (Not much good with a squirming toddler, but thanks. Now I feel just a little more uncomfortable than I did already.)

For half an hour Ellie and I sat on the floor, me lightly smeared with poo, Ellie barefoot and barelegged in her diaper and coat, waiting for Paul to come rescue us. Ah, the glamour of parenthood. Do you think this has ever happened to Julia Roberts?