Recently, our daughter discovered the classic infant art of spitting up.
Yes, I know, those of you who have children are laughing, shuddering and nodding your heads knowingly while those of you who don’t are wondering why on earth I’m even posting about this.
I need the therapy. That’s why.
As Lydia’s most popular canvases, both Mitch and I are finding this a difficult art form to endorse. For the most part, she adorns us with wee dollops of regurgitated lunch (or second breakfast, or elevensies, or midnightsies – really, there’s a variety of meals to choose from), with the occasional foray into larger scale projects that involve soiled clothes and sponge baths and barely withheld curses.
Nothing so far has come even close to Sunday’s masterpiece, an eruption so sudden and huge and unstoppable that Mitch actually used the words “waterfalling” and “cascading” when describing what, exactly, Lydia’s work did while it ran down my belly and puddled in my lap. The kid soaked every single article of clothing I had on, and when I say “soaked,” I am not exaggerating: I had to peel them off of my grossly damp skin as I ran for the shower. And when I say “every single article,” I mean underwear and bra included (I was not wearing socks), and just for good measure, let’s throw in the cushion of the chair I was sitting on.
The event so traumatized Mitch and I that even the daintiest burp sends us running for cover. Give us a hiccup and we’re on the alert, burp cloths at the ready, just in case.