Gag me with a baby spoon

Anyone who's ever been barfed on by a baby knows that nothing in the world compares to the stench of the curdled juice.

Not even adult barf smells like baby barf.

Sometimes I try and pretend that Little Man hasn't just released a white glob onto his outfit but after awhile, the stench is too overpowering and I have to put him in a new outfit. Again. For the fourth time that morning.

The other day, I was burping Little Man and I was sure, absolutely sure, that I heard him do a little baby barf. I immediately checked my shoulder. You see, you're supposed to put a blanket on your shoulder so you don't get the goo on you but there's never one around, or I've taken them all downstairs to be washed, or it was one of those instant barfs that come out of nowhere so I didn't ever have the need for the blanket.

No spitup on my shoulder. "Strange," I thought. "I'm sure I heard it."

A few minutes passed. Now I also thought I could smell it.

I looked again.

Nothing on my shoulder.
Nothing down my front.
Nothing on him.
No drippies anywhere.

"This is exhaustion," I thought.
"I'm dreaming that I'm covered in baby barf."

I accepted that I was nutso and went on with my day - but the smell followed me.

It came with me to the laundry room as I washed dirty workout clothes.
It came with me to the bathroom.
It came with me to the nursery to change a diaper.
It came with me to the mailbox.

I was being haunted by the ghost of baby barf.

Until I wised up.

I was wearing this little blue sweatshirt - actually, as the cool kids say, a little blue hoodie.

I took off my sweater and there, inside the hood, was a pool, a pool I tell you, of baby barf. I'd been carrying it around all day with me.

I was like a Kinder Egg. I had a surprise inside.

That was lame. Oh barf.