Today, we stepped things up a notch, to the dreaded 'projectile vomit.'
I was nursing her (which I've also gotten pretty cocky-confident about), and she decided she'd had enough, smacking her lips and rolling off in the usual sleepy way. I arranged her flat on my lap on her back, where we usually spend a minute or two before burping, which has worked well for us. She started a pretty good spit-up, and I picked her up into a sitting position on my lap. She managed to coincide a tremendous fart, a hiccup, sitting up, and a bit of a gasp past a snot that had goobed up one nostril. That primitive digestive system? Totally lost track of what it was doing, and Jake looked over in time to witness a fire hydrant of warm homemade cottage cheese and milk eject straight at my chest. I am astonished by the amount of milk her system had managed to retain... she soaked me from nipples to thighs, through several layers of clothing, with a chunky, half-digested stream of my own milk, while I sat there with a thoroughly gobsmacked expression.
Once Jake had picked himself up from the floor from laughing, he asked what he could do, and both of us got showers.
This motherhood thing? Needs to come with merit badges. I just earned a new one.
