bite me

Concerned that my little roly poly wasn't progressing in his crawling, sitting up, holding his own bottle business, I grabbed my much-loved copy of What to Expect the First Year to make sure I shouldn't be freaking.

After all of the "babies progress at different stages ... blah diddy blah diddy blah" mumbo jumbo, I stumbled across a feat I hadn't even thought of:

Baby Should Be Able to Feed Himself a Cracker

Huh? When did we get to upgrade to human food???

Well, the book said give it a go. So we did.

I grabbed the box of biter biscuits I'd had stashed for just such an occassion (even though it says for 10 months and up), propped Coop in his bumbo chair, grabbed the camera and prepared to snap away happily while he went at it.

And boy did he.

Despite the fact that he'd just downed a dinner of apple-enhanced oatmeal and a purple-hued assortment of bannanas and berries, that chow hound went to town.

In under 5 minutes he was an ooey, gooey disgusting mess and had managed to whittle that little biter down a slimey nub.

Then all hell broke loose.

The two-teethed tot decided to be an overachiever. Bored by simply drool-melting the biscuit, Coop decided to bite it ... and the chunk went straight to the back of his throat.

And stayed there.

"Honey, do something!" Chris hollared FROM THE COUCH (umm, hello, GET UP!).

Coop was choking, Dad was freaking and I silently prayed I wouldn't have to recall what I learned in infant CPR over 9 months ago (think I need a refresher before we dive back into solids!).

I stuck my index finger in his mouth, fished out the offending biscuit bite and peace was restored.

For about 5.6 seconds.

I don't know if it was all the excitement from choking, the taste of the new food or the fact that it looked like the NY Giants were gonna' win the Super Bowl, but that little turkey puked.

Projectile.

Everywhere.

It looked like Coop had eaten Barney and now that damn dinosaur wanted back out!

"Honey, do something, he's throwing up!" Chris called again from the couch (um, no shit sherlock!)

Little tears pooled at the corner of Coop's eyes and he looked so sad. It broke my mommy heart. (damn book!).

"Start the bath water," I told the now off-the-couch Chris as I gathered my puke-covered babe.

"The mess is alllll yours." (Teach you to tell me to "do something.")

By the time Coop was stripped (and me, too ... it's impossible to carry and then disobe a squirming tot and not get covered in the goo!) and in the tub, my happy baby was back. YAY!

While I could tell Coop LOVED the biter biscuits, I think he secretly wanted payback for the near-death-cum-vomit escapade. Bedtime is usually between 6:30-7.

Tonight? After 6 trips back-and-forth to bed (and several screaming fits), Coop finally called it a night around 9:15.

I promise babe, only regergetated goo from now on (well, at least until you have more teeth).