That's it. That's the shirt.
After having my second child, I noticed that my body isn't bouncing back to my "college body" as quickly as it did the first time. And since my pockets aren't lined with money, (but even if they were, I'm sure my toddler would steal it all and put it in her piggy bank) I don't have the means to buy myself a completely new wardrobe for this new "mommy" body. Therefore, I have a meager collection of clothes that fit and aren't too hot to wear. Each pair of shorts and skirt and shirt are treasured. Well...all except one.
I have one shirt that I love the color of, the fit, the nursing capabilities....but every single time I wear it disaster strikes. Every day that I resort to wearing this shirt, I get slathered head-to-toe in baby barf. And my baby does not spit-up in little "Oh pardon me, let me dab that up" spit-ups. No no. We're talking Old Faithful here. In my head I picture a Cold War era bombing drill: "Everyone get under a table and put your head between your knees! She's gonna blow!!!!" When she barfs I can hear the bubbles starting to come up, but by then it's too late. Frothy sour milk billows out of her mouth onto everything in sight, but with the full force of the attack centered on my clothing. And this happens every time I wear this cursed shirt.
On the fourth of July I was struggling to find some patriotic clothes in my limited wardrobe. I remembered this shirt. It's blue and white, that will do nicely. I pulled it out of my drawer. I stopped. I remembered it's legacy. I put it back in. Surely I have something else to wear. No, I'm being silly. There's no such thing as a cursed shirt and I will be just fine wearing this today. I put it on. The day went fine. The shirt isn't cursed afterall. We had a splendid fourth. We settled down to watch the fireworks. I decided to nurse the baby before they started. When she was finished I went to sit her up to burp and WHAM!!!!!!! OLD FAITHFUL STRIKES AGAIN!! Gurgle gurgle, splush, fwoosh, cough, splutter, bloorp. This freaking shirt is cursed.
So I peeled the baby's soaked onesie off and replaced it with a nice dry one that I came prepared with, but no such luck for me. There I sat in a field with hundreds of people around, drenched in sour milk. There's nothing like the stench of sour milk in July I always say. Well, I do now anyway. And you'd be surprised how cold it can feel even in summer when you are soaked in barf. So I covered myself with the baby's' blanket and tried to enjoy the fireworks while shivering and reeking to the high heavens. And I have to say, the fireworks were spectacular.
