John likes to call home at least once a shift to check in on his girls. Sometimes he has a hard time holding in his high-pitch cackle of laugh when I reveal a new trick his daughter’s demonstrated. At two weeks of age, it was the ability to, the moment after I finished bathing her, while she was still naked in my arms, dump of load of mustard-colored stool over my arms and stomach while simultaneously vomiting down my chest. She was not phased by this experience in the slightest.
At six weeks of age, while we were practicing smiling, she managed to vomit in my mouth. Apparently I don’t learn, my daughter has perfected her aim, or I find her so irresistibly adorable that I can’t help but continue with the big-mouth smiles, as I have once again found myself spitting out my own curdled breast milk.
Look at her plotting away:
You would think I would be disgusted. I’d love to know more about the hormones, genes, neurons, or whatever that make us hard-wired to not be completely repulsed by the many things that are expelled from our progeny’s orifices. Or what makes us inherently proud of each milestone, regardless of how minute it must seem, or each demonstration that the body is functioning appropriately. I think about this when my heart simply melts with each owl-like coo-hooing Aurelia’s been rocking out recently, or when I exuberantly exclaim, “Nice work, honey!” when she startles herself with her own long, wet fart.