This morning you hurled all over me, you, and the glider repeatedly after I fed you from my own body, my own breasts. You couldn't help yourself, this is what happens with reflux. I watched it all cascade out of your mouth, down the front of you, into your diaper, onto my lap, into the chair. I started crying. It was so much, more than usual. I looked up to find you smiling, verbalizing, and chatting in your own baby way. You were not phased, not at all. You're what the health professionals call a "happy spitter". Don't get me wrong. There are moments when the reflux causes you great discomfort, usually in the evenings. But for the most part you just spit-away. It's like breathing for you.
I'm glad that this condition bothers me more than it bothers you, although I wish it bothered me less than it does. Did you know I was crying? I tried to hide it with sweet talk, but I have a sense that you knew. I wonder how much my feelings effect you in this moment, and may ultimately effect you later on. This we may not know for years to come. I pray that my shortcomings and fears will not one day be your own. I'm doing everything in my power to give you my very best, but sometimes my worst and most frightened slips out. I'm human, perfectly human.
In the meantime your dad and I do a lot of laundry and keep plenty of spit rags and bibs on hand. And for added measure, as I fall off to sleep each evening I pray for your well-being.
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