Holy Mackeral!

Tonight, while Chris was teaching a lab, Charlotte decided to see what I was made of.

I’m standing in the kitchen, holding Charlotte her favorite way (facing forward), while cleaning off one of the counters. Suddenly, I watch the milk that I had only fed her five minutes earlier, explode out of her mouth and land in a giant puddle across the floor. This is a true projectile spit-up, perfect arch and all. I look her over and she doesn’t have a drop on her clothes. Crisis averted! It takes about five paper towels to mop up the floor (I’m telling you, this was a lot of spit up), but it is a cinch.

Moving on.

I’m cooking dinner. Charlotte’s sitting in the swing, which I have near the entryway from our kitchen into family room. Charlotte’s content swinging, which is good because I need to get some things done. Every now and then I hear her fuss for a couple seconds, but I’ve been checking on her, and she’s fine. She falls asleep. I eat my food three feet away from her.

Time to clean up. I’m at the sink when Charlotte starts to fuss again, so I decide I’d rather hold her than finish the dishes. I go over to the swing, bend down to pick her up, and see that she is SOAKING wet. There is dried spit up down the entire front of her outfit – neck to feet. Quickly I realize that the mess doesn’t end there. Her back is soaking, the swing is soaking, her arms are soaking, her legs are soaking, her shoulders are soaking (her shoulders? yes, her shoulders). I carry her to her changing table the way you’d carry something disgusting (sorry Baby), and start peeling off the layers. Here is a photo of her soaking clothes in a pile on the floor:

Ick.

As I’m taking off her diaper, I wonder whether it had leaked, thus contributing the massive wetness. But nope, the diaper is dry as a bone. (Actually, I’m lying – there was a poop in there.) This means that it was all spit up. When I think of babies spitting up, I think of the little trickle that might come out onto your shoulder that you can wipe off with a burp cloth. I don’t usually think of soaking an outfit, undershirt, the baby underneath and the thing she is sitting in. I guess I’ve still got a lot to learn.

Sad empty swing waiting for its cover to return from the laundry:

Tired (and clean) Charlotte after her bath:

Don't worry. There's nothing left in this belly.

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