Spit up

I keep meaning to update with pictures and videos, but I've opted to spare you, or rather, spare myself. I hate updating. I probably hate it because my fingers are sore and tired from the constant removal process of spit-up. Seriously. Rip doesn't just spit-up either, he pours sour milk from his mouth like a fountain... the entire day. Spit-up sounds kind of cute and innocent. What Rip does is neither cute nor innocent. It's a vicious assault of my person and my decency. It's an act of terrorism and it needs to be stopped. I'm pretty sure it cannot be stopped. This baby was designed to try me and milk upheaval tries me.

There are so few breaks in between the constant upheaval of milk, that I've resorted to wearing t-shirts all day every day. This might not seem low, but considering I firmly believe the t-shirt to be an article only worn to exercise or sleep, this is a huge development. I loathe myself for stooping so low, but even my resolve to dress like you aren't going to bed has dissolved. My will has dissolved. Life, as I know it, has dissolved. I love the word 'dissolve.' Dissolve.

And to top it all off, the baby just puked on my bedspread.

I'll post pictures tomorrow/later/probably never.