When Paul and I were dating, we went to Tennessee so I could meet his dad. We were sitting outside the Shoney’s after breakfast (nothing but klass for us) and there was this very pregnant woman in the parking lot. She was VERY pregnant. And she was smoking a cigarette. And she was resting the cigarette on her stomach, kind of like she was letting the smoke go in through the umbilical chord. It was one of those moments when you think that people should have to get a license to have kids.
Turns out I need a license too.
There’s a chance, a good chance, that I tried to kill Courtney last week. Not on purpose. I SWEAR! Please don’t call DFCS or CPS or whatever, it was an accident.
Thursday night Courtney wouldn’t eat dinner. I didn’t get it. I kept forcing food on her. Eat. EAT. EAT!!! And she’d have a bite of this and a bite of that. But she wouldn’t really eat anything. And then. Oh dude. Then. She projectile vomited ALL OVER THE PLACE. All over me, all over her, all over the kitchen. ALL OVER. I never would have guessed that someone so small could hold so much food in her stomach. Nor would I have ever guessed that it would take a hot dog so long to digest. (Although, a hot dog is probably like gum, it stays in your stomach for seven years.)
I gave Courtney bad milk. Really, really bad milk. As in, the milk had gone bad 4 days before she drank it. (That also means she’d been drinking the bad milk for DAYS. Oops.) And while the milk didn’t smell at all, apparently it wasn’t so good. I never check the dates on the milk. Why would I? The milk around here is gone so quickly, we never get close to the expiration date.
And after the vomit and the odor (oh, the odor) and the laundry and the cleanup and the hysteria, Courtney was hysterical on entirely other level. She was laughing and laughing and as happy as could be. I totally understand why, all that curdled milk that was in her belly was, you know, gone.
I felt sooo terrible. I still do. Especially because that was 4 days ago and she still has an upset stomach. And then Sunday I woke up with a stomach thing. Payback, I know. And I deserve it. My poor girl.
