Just almost a year ago, two of my favorite people on the planet had a baby and made me a fairy godfather.
Yes. A godfather.
The godmother position was already taken.
For those who don’t really know me, this is where I will disclose that I am a childless white female
in my thirties of twenty-five. For some strange reason, small children adore me.
Children are okay when they are able to walk, talk, feed themselves and use the restroom unattended. Basically, if you want me to watch your thirteen year old, I might be down. Maybe. That, of course, would depend on the amount of angst exuded by said child.
As usual, I digress.
Every time I visit with my friends and godchild, the baby manages to vomit on me.
EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.
It makes me wish for a giant vat of Purell Hand Sanitizer. I would bathe in it.
I have the utmost respect for parents, because I sincerely have no idea how you amazing people do it.
A few days ago, I was visiting the home of my friends and godchild, and Dad had to go to the store “real quick.”
There is no such thing, but in spite of my reservations and certainty that SOMETHING would go wrong, I agreed to be left alone with the godbaby for a few minutes.
Diaper was changed, a bottle was made, the child was corralled, and all was well.
Until I turned my head for approximately 1.2 milliseconds and he was lying in the floor, bottle disassembled, with formula EVERWHERE.
Baby formula is baby vomit without the baby added.
I may have momentarily freaked out.
It’s possible that I nearly lost my lunch multiple times trying to clean up the mess.
The godchild thought it was hilarious.
He would. He is, after all, his father’s son.