Last night when Elizabeth got home from Colleen's house, she saw all the newly sterilized bottles and insisted on "holdy, holdy, HOLDY, HOLDY!" (Translation: "I want to hold that let me hold that I WANT THAT NOW GIVE IT TO ME NOW!")
So I assembled one of the bottles and handed it over, assuming she would want to feed one of her new Christmas babies.
Wrong. She wanted it all for herself. Afterall, this was a REAL bottle, not a magic milk-disappearing bottle. She popped it in her mouth and kept it there for the rest of the evening, except while she shoveled fistfuls of "lellow sketty" (Translation: "Yellow spaghetti - spaghetti without sauce") into her starving (we never feed her) belly. Later she took a break to drink some "millook" (translation: milk).
Two minutes before bedtime, she let out a cry, an enormous belch and announced a warning: "troo-up." (Translation: Crap. I'm gonna hurl all over you. Move quickly if you want to save yourself.)
I shouted at Brian, "Get a bucket and a towel, QUICK!"
Brian came back with a plastic blue cup, and Elizabeth's dress-up apron (roughly 6" x 6" made of paper) and I screamed frantically, "BIGGER! HURRY!"
He came back with a stainless steel bowl and a bath towel - but only after Elizabeth had expelled the entire contents of her stomach (which I think must be reather huge) all over me, because she had filled her entire digestive tract with 17 pounds of air from sucking on an empty baby bottle all evening. You'd think we'd know better. You'd THINK.
Yeah. We're definitely shooting for that Parent of the Year Award.