Greg almost always gets up with Eleanor in the morning while I sleep because I work nights. I decided that for Father’s Day, I should let him sleep in. And Eleanor and I were going to make him breakfast in bed (French toast, his favorite). And I had brought home the Sunday edition of the New York Times for him to read while enjoying his breakfast. It was going to be a great day.
Eleanor woke at 6:30 for a feeding, and when I put her back in her crib, she wasn’t asleep but seemed content. I grabbed the baby monitor and went back to bed. She would fall asleep in a few minutes.
More than a few minutes passed. Eleanor’s babbling got louder, so I went into her room to see if I could rock her to sleep. After much rocking and bouncing and pacing, I laid her down. And a fountain, no, a geyser, of milk erupted from her mouth. She had emptied the entire contents of her stomach. She blinked her long lashes, trying to see through the muck. I grabbed a couple burp cloths and started to dry her off and pull off all her clothes.
There was a pizza-sized wet spot on her bedding, so that would have to come off too. If I had gotten more than five hours of sleep that night, and more than four hours of sleep the night before, I might have been able to deal with this, but I am not one of those magical elves who can function without sleep.
I carried Eleanor into our room and woke Greg. At 7:20 a.m. Eleanor had not emptied the entire contents of her stomach. She spit up on him. Happy Father’s Day!
We did manage to get Eleanor to sleep a little more, and both of us got a bit more rest. But those people who eat breakfast in bed and read the Sunday Times? Those people are not parents.