At any given time, I smell like spit up; musty, vaguely cheesy, definitely sour. It's in my hair, on my shoulder, in between my breasts, where it pools making a stinky reservoir in my bra. In short, I stink. And when I don't smell like spit-up, I probably smell like baby poop which I've had the misfortune of finding on my shorts, skirts, dresses and once on my cheek (I don't want to know how this happened).
When HT was first born, the doctors explained the spitting phenom by telling me that since HT didn't travel down ye olde birth canal, which squeezes excessive fluids out of the baby like a tube of toothpaste, she just had a lot more fluid to get out of her system. And boy, did she! She spit, hurled, and sprayed me constantly in the hospital. We brought her home and found that instead of bringing home a sweet, 3-day old baby, we'd actually brought home a 95 year-old chain-smoking emphysemic squeaky dog toy or at least that's what HT sounded like.
I might be quietly cuddling with HT on my bed, enjoying the silence of just the two of us. I'll examine her nose, her long eyelashes and her little pursed mouth with blisters on her lips from breast feeding then BOOM! HT shoots spit up out the tiny mouth that I was just studying. And here's the kicker, she spits up out of her nose. Tiny little torpedoes of partially digested breast milk pour out of her nose. HER NOSE!
Normally, I'd say it can't get any grosser than that, but then I'd be lying. HT spit up twice into my own mouth. HT suckled on my breast, burped her normal truck driver belch, fell asleep, woke up and nestled close to me and then opened her mouth in what I thought was her first smile, but instead spit out cheese curds into my own mouth. I tasted my own breast milk cheese that day and it was not tasty. It was like very sour cottage cheese. It was definitely not something I wanted to try again, and yet this happened more than once.
I asked HT's pediatrician about my Mt. Vesuvius baby. Surely, this much spitting wasn't healthy. Bean had acid reflux, perhaps HT also had it too. The answer, was a resounding "NO." She's gaining weight, she's happy, she is just a "happy spitter."
So, much like the many Italian grammas before me, I will cover my furniture in plastic wrap and await the next cataclysmic spit up because experience tells me, it's coming.