It's an early morning feeding, and my bleary eyes wander from the face of my contentedly nursing baby to my own lap. I'm naked from the waist down, a testament to the baby-thwarted lovemaking session earlier that night. Nothing wakes a peacefully slumbering baby more quickly than the mere idea that his parents might be getting ready to do it in the bed next to him. Ours woke, right on cue, and determinedly fussed and fidgeted until well past 1:00 am. By the time The Man got him back to sleep in his bassinet and rolled over to finish what he'd started, I was all like, "Yeah, baby, [snore], let's [snore], do this thing [snore]!" And then I fell fast asleep. And now I sit in bed, half-naked and shivering in the early October morning chill, trapped between the jaws of a ravenous 7-week-old, wishing I'd had the motivation to put at least my underwear back on. Such is the sex life of new parents.
After nearly 40 minutes of frantic sucking, he finally spits out my nipple with a satisfied sigh and I sit him on my lap for a vigorous burping. He follows a couple manly belches with a wet gurgle, and then spews half the content of my right boobie down his chin and onto his...
Where did it go?
In a scene cut straight from There's Something About Mary, I search high and low for his shot wad, and can not find it anywhere. There's a trace amount on The Baby's nightshirt; enough to let me know that I didn't imagine the whole thing, but certainly not enough to represent the whole lot of it. I know there has to be a wet mess somewhere, but fuck it. It's 4 am, and I'm too tired to care. I finish burping him and hand him off to daddy to be re-swaddled and put back to sleep.
And that's when I notice the mess in my lap. I have an initial moment of panic, thinking that I've been stricken with the worst yeast infection anyone has ever suffered, ever. And by "ever," I mean "of all time, going back to the dark ages, EVER."
Eventually I recognize it for what it is and, as if locating regurgitated milk is somehow comparable to discovering a long lost earring in the far recesses of an old purse, I gleefully think to myself, "Yay! There it is!" I think this thought quite happily until a much louder, much more urgent thought rudely interrupts to scream: "FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN! GET UP! THERE'S CURDLED MILK ON YOUR VA-JAY-JAY!!"
Different bodily fluid.
Just as gross.