We have a chaise lounge next to the window (I know I sound all french and hip when I say that but we got it from Ikea). I pick her up and plop her, tummy-side down, on my chest, laying us both on the half couch, half chair hybrid, the blinds tilted such that we can see the evening sky.
"Hi daddy!" She says in her smile.
"Hey, Baby Girl!" My clever retort is awesome.
Her clever retort is even more awesome.
"Oh, daddy, your shirt is sooooo clean, it smells like... graBLAAHAHAH-glub-glub-bluh!" Her mouth opens wide and she's suddenly a faucet, spouting yogurt by the pint all over me.
"Burp-clo-o-o-o-o-o-o-th!" I scream, like it's a fire-drill and her mother comes running over and heaves a clean cloth. "If you're gonna spew, Baby Girl, spew in this." She laughs a little but not at my clever reference to Wayne's World.
"Oh, no daddy," Baby Girl announces. "Don't you remember? Clean clothes make me nauseous."
I dab at her face, which looks like she tried to eat a bowl of sour cream out of a dog dish and she smiles and giggles like it's the coolest thing that happened to her all day. What a wonderful age, wherein vomiting is such a new and fun experience.
I make unworthy attempts to clean the thick sludge from my shirt. The cloth is now useless and I quickly give up, taking off the shirt and laying her down on my bare chest.
"That's better daddy. Now you just smell like daddy."
"That's OK, baby girl. You can puke on me all you want."
We stare out the window at the trees and watch the wind blow at the birds who just float with it, gliding along, in and out. It's getting dark enough that the stars are just becoming visible. I wonder if she can see them and what she thinks of it all. She has such a curiosity for the outdoors. Whenever I take her outside, she names all the trees, pushing away from my chest so she can get a better view, flipping her head around and aside to see what's coming next. Times like this, she lays her head flat on the side, pulls herself in closer and the view is perfect.
We drift off for a nap and another ninja adventure unfolds.
"Oh, daddy, your shirt is sooooo clean, it smells like... graBLAAHAHAH-glub-glub-bluh!" Her mouth opens wide and she's suddenly a faucet, spouting yogurt by the pint all over me.
"Burp-clo-o-o-o-o-o-o-th!" I scream, like it's a fire-drill and her mother comes running over and heaves a clean cloth. "If you're gonna spew, Baby Girl, spew in this." She laughs a little but not at my clever reference to Wayne's World.
"Oh, no daddy," Baby Girl announces. "Don't you remember? Clean clothes make me nauseous."
I dab at her face, which looks like she tried to eat a bowl of sour cream out of a dog dish and she smiles and giggles like it's the coolest thing that happened to her all day. What a wonderful age, wherein vomiting is such a new and fun experience.
I make unworthy attempts to clean the thick sludge from my shirt. The cloth is now useless and I quickly give up, taking off the shirt and laying her down on my bare chest.
"That's better daddy. Now you just smell like daddy."
"That's OK, baby girl. You can puke on me all you want."
We stare out the window at the trees and watch the wind blow at the birds who just float with it, gliding along, in and out. It's getting dark enough that the stars are just becoming visible. I wonder if she can see them and what she thinks of it all. She has such a curiosity for the outdoors. Whenever I take her outside, she names all the trees, pushing away from my chest so she can get a better view, flipping her head around and aside to see what's coming next. Times like this, she lays her head flat on the side, pulls herself in closer and the view is perfect.
We drift off for a nap and another ninja adventure unfolds.
7 comments:
I'm always amazed by the power behind that vomit. Baby's have ninja powers. I can't think of another explanation for how such a little thing can channel so much energy.
My favourite puked on experience was picking my son off the floor and having him chuck down the inside of my shirt. That was special.
My hubs had a similiar experience after a long business trip away. Coming home to our little ray of sunshine led him to believe that they could have a moment, until she puked in his mouth. Moment gone.
They strike like a Spitting Cobra. You get used to it.
The Tater, in year younger days, liked putting her swollen gums on my chilled Dogfish Head beer glass. Guess what Tater puked in?.....Yup.
That's mine too Captain Dumbass -down the shirt.
Eww in his mouth?
I'm always on guard for a puke in the mouth moment. It's happened more times than I can count. I'm now on the "mom, will you hold my booger?" phase of things.
we had a projectile vomiter...she could fill your shirt, underwear and shoes from across the room.
just ask hubby.
pyloric stenosis was its name ...
Ah, baby ninja vomit is the best. BTW, you are one of my new bloggy heroes. I have a ninja-worthy award for you, over on my blog. Come grab it and pass along the goodness.
Warning, beware the open-mouthed ninja pose. It welcomes the most gnarly of the baby ninja vomit.
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