I am a self-proclaimed clean freak, I might possibly go so far as to say germ-o-phobe without wearing the bird flu mask like they do in
Never in my pre-baby days did I imagine becoming so numb and nonchalant about bodily fluids spewing onto my sofa - or rug - or hair - or shirt. The first time my son spit up on me my reaction was one of, "Uhhh, gross. What is this chunky white stuff? Blech." Time went on, and Monkey Man just didn't have that strong of a stomach. He spit up after every meal, between every meal, and even before every meal. We could count on changing his clothes, and ours, as often as those weird pageant kids change costumes. Eventually it was such a common occurrence that I just laughed, and longed for the day when my primate son would stand on two feet (his doctor told us he probably wouldn't stop this ritual until he was crawling less and walking more).
Our sage green and natural color gingham sofa (of which we took such care of because of their light colors and acute ability to show everything) just couldn’t withstand the hourly beatings of spit up. In the beginning, I aggressively attacked each spot with cleaner, working at it until I was satisfied with its appearance. I think I gave up all hope of ever having a nice sofa around the end of the first month of Monkey Man's life. So I threw in the burp cloth and let him have at it.
I now have the grossest looking couches this side of a fraternity house garage sale. Ever seen CSI where they whip out that black light in the dark to look for those stomach-turning stains? Well, that's my sofa – WITHOUT THE BLACKLIGHT. Thus the reason that there are now slipcovers being delivered from somewhere in