Milestones

I achieved two blog-worthy milestones yesterday. After reading this, you may beg to differ with what I deem "blog-worthy." Keep in mind that any Tom, Dick or Harry can have a blog...for free...with no editing. So "blog-worthy" is not a very ambitious term.

Since Ian arrived, I have been covered in more bodily fluids than any non-medical personnel should endure. These are things which are clearly intended to remain on the INSIDE. Tell that to Ian. Thanks to acid-reflux, he insists on showing us what formula looks like post-consumption. Now that I know this about my son, I have implemented a simple yet effective plan to contain the damage. When I get home from work, I don my spit-up uniform.

The two basic requirements for this uniform are 1) it must be layered allowing me to peel off a soiled layer and still have a wearable ensemble and 2) it must be machine washable, duh. Considering that nearly two-thirds of my wardrobe is in the Goodwill pile, my uniform options are limited. For example, I currently have 2 pairs of jeans which comprise 50% of my suitable-for-work pant wardrobe.

You may think that jeans would be an acceptable component of the wardrobe.

And you would be wrong.

EVERYONE knows that jeans are not machine washable. Well, at least not machine dry able. I used to pretend that I air dried my jeans so they wouldn't shrink in length. Truth be told? I was already fighting to contain my belly behind the strained zipper of that stretched out waistband. To dry them back to their original size would deem them unwearable. So in Loriland, jeans must never, EVER, E-V-E-R go in the dryer.

Fast forward to yesterday.

After coming home from work, I was distracted by the beyond adorable thing that Ian must have been doing at the time (though I can't recall what it was) and neglected to change into my spit-up uniform before handling the cute little barf machine. On cue, he unleashed a pool of regurgitated formula on me, the chair, the carpet and himself. And darn it all if I wasn't wearing jeans. (You kinda saw that coming, didn't you?)

After sopping up the majority of the damage, I changed into my spit-up uniform and marched the defiled jeans to the washing machine and punched the milk button in the stain brain. God bless the stain brain. By the time the cycle ended, it was 9:30pm and I was ready for bed. This, my friends, is a dangerous time of day to make decisions. Sensibility is replaced by the need to sleep. So rather than hang the jeans to dry which would have required 3 steps, I opened the dryer door, tossed them in and pressed start. Also 3 steps in case you're keeping track. Screw it, I'm tired.

I woke up this morning and immediately slapped myself on the head. What have I done? I have ruined one-quarter of my suitable-for-work pant wardrobe. IDIOT. Why, why, why do I make these types of decisions at bedtime? I should be banned from all decision making after 9pm. Somebody stop me!

I trudged down to retrieve the jeans fully expecting them to be Barbie-sized at this point. I yanked them out of the dryer and held them up to see if they were an acceptable length. Huh, that looks pretty good. But they'll never fit around. I folded them and returned to my bedroom for the final humiliation. I put my jeans on one leg at a time. (Isn't that how you do it?) Well I will be darned if those suckers didn't fit! And were even a bit loose still. Holy mackerel. Holy Toledo. Holy jumping up and down Martha. The silly things fit! So I did what anyone would do. I ripped them off and jumped on the scale. Down another pound. Just 2 more to go until my goal.

I tell ya, I never thought I'd live to see the day when machine drying jeans would be permitted in Loriland.

Oh, the other blog-worth milestone? Ian started spouting a yellow rainbow as I was pulling him out of the tub last night. And I calmly blocked the stream with my hand. My bare hand. Without thinking twice. I'm clearly used to having a son.