Confessions of a Human Burp Cloth

Babies spit up. We know this.

But what surprised me about my youngest son was his ability to projectile vomit.

He could have gone to the Olympics. Gold medal for distance! Gold medal for most frequent spitter-upper!

I mean, we’re talking all-day, all-night spit up that would shoot across the room at high speeds.

One time, my sister-in-law held him up in the air, saying, “You’re such a cute baby. Who’s your favorite auntie?”

And then my son let loose. Creamy white goo flew through the air, right into said sister-in-law’s mouth.

I don’t think she ever held him again after that.

It wasn’t always projectile, though. Sometimes it was just a constant dribble, like a leaky faucet.

This led to there always being spit up on my shoulder, along with little drips of spit up behind me wherever I went.

This also led to massive amounts of laundry and cleaning the floor. Eventually, you get to a point where you just don’t care anymore because you’re so freaking tired of cleaning and changing your shirt 600 times a day.

There’s a waterfall of spit up running down my chest? Whatever.

I smell like soured milk? Who cares.

One time, I was in our attic, holding my youngest against my shoulder.

I grabbed a bin of clothes that I was storing for one of the boys and walked back down the steps.

Of course, with my baby on my shoulder, drops of spit up splattered behind me on each step.

But my arms were full. I told myself I’d come wipe it up when I was done nursing the baby, getting my three-year-old down for his nap, and sorting through this bin of clothes.

Ha, who was I kidding?

Surprise, surprise, I never went back to clean the spit up.

And every time I would walk up the attic steps, I’d look at those dried-up drops of spit up and say to myself, “I’ll wipe them up next time.”

Well, my friends, yesterday was a momentous occasion.

It’s been twelve years.

And I finally cleaned the spit up off the attic steps.