Happy spitting

We brought you home just a few days more than a month ago.

Before you arrived, Daddy had a very low gag threshold – gross things made me gag.

I won’t go into graphic details, but even thinking about the memory of gross things could make me gag.

And then we brought you home.

You would spit up, “happy spitting,” the doctor calls it. “Leaking” is what I call it, because you make eye contact, smile, and some version of whatever went into you sometime in the previous hour just leaks out of your mouth.

In the first days, you’d leak, and I’d gag . . . sometimes harder than others. Just a small amount of leakage on me was enough for me to change my shirt.

By the end of the first week, I wouldn’t even notice.

By the end of the second week, I seldom cared.

By the third week, when we were in the pool, and the happy spitting poured out warm and copious onto my bare chest . . . it was an experience I can’t begin to describe yet won’t soon forget.

And now, you smile your toothless grin, sometimes belch like an actor pretending to be drunk, and out it pours, happily.

And I don’t give it a second thought. On the other hand, a diaper extensively soiled in the back, is enough to give Daddy pause.

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