Okay, as mothers, we all know that shit, and spit, happen.
We've all reached one unsuspecting finger into the edge of a diaper only to pull out a brown, not so fudgilicious digit.
I've even had my oldest son paint the walls with poop and disgustingly declare at one time that it "Tastes good, mommy." Shudder. There's not enough Scope and toothpaste in the world to make me feel comfortable kissing that mouth for at least a week. Maybe longer.
Today was the day that spit happened. Specifically, to Stubby.
Being the bystander today made for a very good day.
I'd fill up Punk on the good ol' boob juice, think it was safe to hand her off, and when he took over, the puke came out.
(Truly, I wasn't trying to make her spit up. No matter what he says I didn't do anything to make it happen. Four times. Twice at church.)
It was all Punk, leaving yummy cottage cheesy curdles all over her beloved Daddy, then grinning just to make sure they were still buds.
She was having a good time.
Stubby wasn't.
Oh well. You can't win them all.
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