I was never meant to be a baby bird

There's something almost liberating about having one of your worst fears realized.

I've always had a paranoia about holding babies over my head because I was utterly convinced that they would view this as an opportunity to spit up on my face (I would call this a phobia, but phobia implies that this is somehow an irrational fear). I suspect this dates back from when I was eleven and spent time with a baby cousin who spit up approximately every 2.3 seconds.

Well, now I'm a parent myself and pretty much immune to baby fluids in all their varieties, and I have a baby who loves to be held up high so she can stretch out and play Superbaby. So we do, because I wish her joy in all things and it keeps her quiet and happy. And this morning, it finally happened. I was holding K above my head, she opened her mouth and out it came, scoring a direct hit.

Right on my mouth.

I saw it coming and (mostly) closed my mouth in time. But still. Even four months of parenting a reflux baby hadn't inured me to the soul-shriveling grossness of that moment.

So if you'll pardon me, I'll be over in the corner, gargling for the rest of my natural life.