It happened last night.

You know that scene from the movies where the unsuspecting person lifts the adorable baby up over their head only to be blanketed in a stream of barf? 

I thought I was projectile vomit immune, that my baby was beyond the age where she might christen me with a puke shower. Sadly, I was wrong.

Enough time had passed from when she ate her dinner (or so I thought). We were playing on the floor, awaiting bath time. Funny thing was that I would be the one needing a bath more than her at the end of it all. I don’t recall shaking her up, perhaps she just had too much to eat.

The next thing I knew a river of throw-up was cascading out of her mouth onto my face. Lucky for me, I shut my mouth just as the barf landed. I quickly wiped it off with my sleeve, but the damage had been done. There was puke all over me — on my clothes and worst of all…in my hair. This wasn’t just a little spit up, this was the real deal Holyfield.

The hubby sat on the couch in shock. I started laughing uncontrollably more out of embarrassment than horror. It was kinda like get pooped on by a bird. You wipe it off and go on as if nothing happened, hoping no one else noticed.

He laughed and said if it had been him, he would have thrown up too. But puke is the least of my worries. Sure, I didn’t like having it in my hair, but there’s worse that could happen. It could’ve gone in my mouth. I shudder to think…

Another Mummy Milestone reached. Where’s my merit badge?