Eric doesn't really handle the "nasty" side of parenthood well. He prefers a neat and orderly world, where babies don't smear apple sauce on his pant leg and boogers on his shirt.
Which is why if Madeline was going to pick one of us to vomit on this afternoon, it was a good thing it was me.
As soon as we got home this afternoon, my spidey-mom sense told me something was not right. Madeline was cuddly in a way that usually means she's coming down with something. She snuggled on my lap and read some books for a while before turning her attention to her toys.
She was in the midst of asking to be picked back up when it happened... epic, chunky baby vomit all over my lap. Then she paused for a moment, we looked at one another with confusion, and she did it again. Two epic baby vomits in my lap. Awesome.
If anyone else had vomited in my lap, I'd probably lose my ever-loving mind. But it's like I'm immune to any gross bodily functions Madeline experiences.
Sure, it was gross and all, but I was able to calmly slip my clothes off, clean myself up, scoop the chunks into a bag, and throw our sofa's slipcover into the washing machine without so much as gagging. I might as well have been picking up her morning Cheerios. Yet, when the cat used to throw up, I'd do anything to avoid dealing with it. (What cat-vomit on the floor??? I don't know what you mean, Eric!)
I guess the Evolution Fairy knew what it was doing when it created mothers.
As for Madeline, once the vomit was out of her system, she seemed to return to her normal self. Maybe she had a hairball?
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