On vomit.

June and I recently returned from a trip to visit my family in suburban Chicago. Among the many discussions I had with my dad ("Look how cute June is," "Want to know how cute June is?" and "Isn't June the cutest?" being just a few), the subject of baby vomit came up more than once. I guess it can't be reasonably called vomit if there's no retching involved, but that's what makes it so damn fascinating. She could be smiling, gurgling, swatting at her rattling giraffe on the playmat, all the while the heady brew of breastmilk containing whatever-in-god's-name-mom-ate-an-hour-ago is staging a coup in her gut. Then boom, puke. No wincing, no crying, just a noiseless expulsion of her last meal. Then back to swatting at the giraffe like her shirt's not soaked with partially digested milk solids.

She let 'er rip earlier today while I was holding her upright and the splashing noise the spit-up made on her bedroom floor prompted Greg and I to laugh out loud and Gypsy to break into an earnest trot toward it for snacking. It took some stern commands to stem his nasty tide and buy me enough time to get at it with a baby wipe. I guess for all he knows it could be bacon grease, so why not pursue it? But I'm guessing once he realized it was not bacon grease he still would have had his way with it. Man, dogs.

I wish vomiting was that effortless and pleasant for me now as it was at June's age. When did it change? I long for those carefree days of devil-may-care booting instead of the writhing, painful, praying-for-sweet-death moments that pockmark youth to the present. My dad had me roaring the other day talking about how awful the stomach flu was as a kid (well, at any time really), but especially when he was a kid. Hot cheeks, no TV and a mother squawking, "Quit throwing up, goddammit!" all the while he was doing the telltale "uhhhhh, uhhhh, uhhhh" groans immediately preceding all hell breaking loose. At least when I was a kid we could wheel my mom and dad's TV on the microwave cart into our bedrooms and watch Bozo. As if puking wasn't bad enough. Even regarding that, my dad was giving me the "you don't know how lucky you are" treatment because when he was a kid and feeling well enough to move to the den and watch TV, he was stuck watching some show called "Garfield Goose" starring a puppet and some goofball wearing a uniform with epaulets. I still contend that Bozo sucked. Has there ever been a character of stage and screen more maddening than Wizzo? Besides Jar Jar Binks? In fact, I remember looking at the kids lined up in front of the Bozo Buckets and imagining hurling into them... after removing the Twinkie, of course.

What was I saying? Oh yeah, spit up. Poor gal. But actually, not poor gal. Lucky gal. It's all downhill from here.