One. Proud. Papa. I can’t remember the last time I left my house without some spot of baby puke somewhere on my person. (That’s a lie. I actually can remember: it was the day I left the apartment to bring Jubilee home from the hospital.) Each morning I carefully examine my clothing, take the kid (who has been carefully secured into her car seat) to the car, drive to the sitter’s place, and arrive at our destination only to discover that somehow between the ‘close examination’ and ‘arrival at our destination’ stages of the day, new puke is contaminating some article of my clothing. But I’ve also discovered how understanding people are: the consensus seems to be, “You’re the parent of an infant. Infants puke. Wear it as a badge of honor; they’re only this young once.” I’m more worried about the goo on my shirt than anybody else is, and they see it as happy evidence that I’m (more…)
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