Spit up, spit up everywhere

During my pregnancy, I lived in sweats, tank tops and zip-up hoodies until it was warm enough to ditch the hoodie and trade in the sweats for maxi skirts. I have two, and they got old. Quick. I so looked forward to trading that I’m-over-this-pregnancy look for something a little more put together when the baby finally came. So, now she’s here, and I completely, completely, forgot about the mom-of-a-new-baby look. Whatever you’re wearing, there’s spit up on it somewhere. And you probably smell.
Baby girl is eight weeks now, and I’m still living in sweats and tank tops, only now my right shoulder strap is routinely smeared in spit up. That’s where I tend to hold her when I’m doing whatever it is that I do, so that’s the side that’s usually stiff with sour, partially digested breast milk. Mmm. When it’s a particularly good shot, it’ll run down the right side of my torso and hit my shoe. This isn’t reflux, just regular old baby spit up, and it happens all the time. Over and over. And always after I pull on a fresh tank. Okay, I’m lying. I don’t even change anymore. I can’t! I’m running out of tops! Unless it really stinks, I’m all for a quick dab with a damp cloth, so I can move on with my day.
And yes, we have a bazillion burp cloths, but she’s a wily one, I guess. Impeccable aim.
I’m envious of anyone in an actual outfit these days because it signifies the luxury of time. I don’t have it. I’m lucky enough to get my clothes on in the morning. And when I do manage to pull it together and optimistically bust out the pretty silk tops, she nails me immediately. I’m resigned to rotating, literally, through the same handful of old tops and bottoms until we get past this stage. I can’t really remember, but I’m thinking that’s somewhere around the 6-month mark.
At least the weather is changing. Pretty soon she’ll be able to spit up all over a bunch of long-sleeved tops that I don’t care about either. I’m really looking forward to the new look.