Some days I have smartness in my brain-thing

In which your humble narrator tries to turn back the tide of fluids spewed regularly at him by Child#2.

Child #2 is a spitter. She's a drooler. She's a pooper, and she's a screamer.  Some people call her a Space Cowboy... no wait that's not right.

I simply was not prepared for the mess-making capabilities of Child #2. Child #1 was a scrawny, colicky infant who screamed pretty much non-stop for his first four months of life, but he was tidy. Child #2 spits up copious volumes of milk after every feeding (no matter how much I try to restrict the number of ounces at any one feeding). She also drools disgusting milky drool while she drinks from the bottle. This runs down her neck into the fat-folds of skin where it sours and then collects lint. Or it alternately soaks her shirt. Bibs do nothing, leaving me with the joy of going through about six outfits per day (four for her, two for me). I don't have a big enough wardrobe to continue feeding this child. By the end of the week I'm forced to wear ancient, ill-fitting, strange clothes. If you drop by on any given Friday you may find me wearing holey corduroys with a tuxedo shirt and track jacket. It's a look borne out of desperation not to smell like sour milk.

In my continuing battle against the moisture generated by my daughter, this morning I purchased some amazing, space age super towels at the local Trader Joe's. They come in packages of 2 10"x14" towels. I cut one in two, and made a second curved to fit around Child #2's neck. It worked pretty well. It's much more absorbent than any of our 12 million bibs.

Sometimes I do have smartness in my brain thing... but only when backed up against a typhoon-like wall of spit-up.