It happened to me!

I believe that today's events all boil down to one person . . . Kristen, our dear friend and former realtor. Kristen got a real kick out of Tova's middle name, Margaret, and one day announced, "I know, we can call her Margie!" Margie stuck, so did Marge, Marjorie, Marge-a-munchy-muncher, Tova Marge, Tova Margie, and so on.
In all reality, who really wants to be called Marge, or Margie? As of today, I'm almost positive that Tova does not find any of those names very flattering.
Okay, and to set the story up, you should know that Tova rarely spits up. It should also be noted that when Tova does spit-up, she sounds like a baby bull-frog (but a bull-frog no less) saying "hork." Okay, also, Tova grunts like a baby piggy when she's hungry and when she's nursing she squeaks like old barn doors. Okay?
Tova and I accompanied Little Petra to ballet class tonight. It was duly noted before we left the house that Tova was a little mouthy, sucking on her squishy fingies and drooling. When we arrived at the dance studio, we discovered that this week is parent-watch week when the parents are invited to sit inside the studio and watch their pookies dance. Happily, I schlepped all of Tova's baby gear into the studio and took a sit in a folding chair at the opposite end of the room underneath signs that read "No Talking" and "Siblings May Stay in Room if Quiet". Just as the ballerinas started on barre, Tova jolted awake from her post-car-ride nap and started snorting like the little piggy that she is. She wasn't snorting quietly, like the aforementioned sign suggested she should if she wanted to stay in the ding studio puhlease!
Anyway, this isn't Ann Arbor where nursing mommies can yank out their floppy boobies in any old situation and set right down to feeding their babies. This is Southern California, Land of Boob Jobs and Looking Fancy in Your High Heeled Boots on Parent-Watch Night. I tried, I really did. I tried to discreetly unhook my nursing bra flap from under my shirt while hushing Miss Piggy who was snorting like a litter of piglets going whole hog on a mess of pig slop. Petra was staring at me with pleading eyes, "Mommy shut that ding whippersnapper up, for crying out loud, I am Maria Tallchief-ing right now and if this is not serious business than I don't know what is!"
Okay, finally I got all pulled together, or apart as it were, and Tova latched on. Thankfully, she stopped snorting immediately, but then she began her wheezing barn door squeaking in time to the Tchaikovsky overture that was playing. A few stares from the plastic mommies in the room, but I was doing the best that I could with my size D's hanging out and my super huge postpartum belly oozing out of the bottom of my shirt. Anyway, Tova nursed, Petra danced, eventually the squeaking tapered down and then all was well. Done with Side One, I tried to burp Tova but she started with the piggy snorts again and stared at me with her little cross-eyes in a ravenous way and I just knew that if I didn't quit the burping and get her started on Side Two ASAP then she was just going to have a holy conniption. I popped her onto Side Two, all was well, I sang to her "Sweet Little Tova Marge, Marge, Marge! My little Margie baby, Mommy loves the Marge. Marge, large and in charge."
She finished nursing, I kept singing while I sat her up to burp her and then all of a sudden, "hoooork!" Then "splat", as 1/3 of her stomach contents smacked onto the studio's wood floor.
I looked at her in alarm, she looked back at me, "I dare ya Mommy, I double dog dare you."
I responded, "Little Marge, yucky ucky spitty witty. Lets burpy you!"
To which she responds, "hooooork!"
And then, of course, "splat" on the wood floor again and "splash" onto my shirt, scarf and jeans.
I gasped, all eyes on me (the plastic mommies, the west-side hippy mommies, all the ballerinas and the dance teacher), "oh, Tova Marge, what in the . . ."
"Hork!"
"Splat!"
Then screams from the little girls, "ewwwww." Petra, mortified, was cowering in the corner trying to avoid eye contact with her mommy who's D's are fully liberated and inexplicably wavering about while her baby sister bobs her big old head around on her baby neck, drool on her chin, milk pouring from her nostrils. All the while, the smell of stomach bile and warm breast milk (think spoiled cottage cheese) fills the room. The hippy mommies jump up, running to my aid with paper towels, the ends of their hemp skirts, etc., while the plastic mommies stare at me with a mixture of horror and triumph as they click their tongues and tap their precariously heeled feet on the floor.
As I stood to rush to the bathroom, toppling the metal folding chair that I was sitting on into a mangled heap on the floor with a strident "crash", I began to mutter under my breath (for the umpteenth time), "oh Tova Mar . . ." when Petra shot me a dark look as if to say "Mommy, don't you dare ever call her Marge again." Aye, aye Captain, enough with the Marge already.
In the bathroom, I tried to calm my nerves while I dried Tova off but in the end I realized that I just couldn't go back in the studio and face all those parents and little girls. I snaked my way back through the studio and out to the quiet lobby, where I got to finish watching Petra on the live-video feed to the TV monitor. Tova, all warm and dry, fell fast asleep in her car seat while I trembled in my very wet and very aromatic clothes.
It's a good laugh, really. I'm over it. Petra has forgiven me and she has mostly forgiven Tova. My big kids are all fast asleep in their beds now, looking cute and precious. Soren has his tiger wrapped in the crook of his elbow while he dreams about all the super-suave dance moves he'll be doing at his Hip-Hop class tomorrow. Annike is snuggled onto her Princess pillow dreaming about our zoo plans for the morning. Petra is up in her loft, happily dozing because Uncle Chad and Aunt Sarah gave her money to attend UC-Berkeley in 10-years where she plans to major in Cowgirl Studies and Gymnastics. Finally, curled up next to me, all hot and sweaty is my little Tova Marge.
"Hoooork!"
And splat!