1) There’s something Guinness-ian about the force and distance that vomit can fly out of Sonny’s mouth after he’s done Superboy, which is what we call it when we hold him horizontally and fly him around the house like Superman, or Spaceboy, which is what we call it when we hold him vertically and thrust his body into the air while making exploding, spaceship-lift-off sounds, for too long. He loves it; he loves it; he loves it; and then he pukes. Hopefully while we’re in the kitchen, the only room in our home that isn’t carpeted, making for easy clean-up.
2) The definition of “easy clean-up” has changed rapidly in our home, from “only needed one wipe” to “at least, he didn’t shit through his diaper.”
Defined as scenes from my favorite movies, “easy clean-up” was Cameron Diaz’s hair in “Something About Mary” and is now more like the chainsaw scene in “Scarface.” For perspective, “the worst clean-up ever” would be like the redrum scene in “The Shining,” where those creepy twin girls are in the hallway and the walls are pouring out blood.
3) I am so glad we do not have twins.
4) “Easy clean-up” has a new definition when doing Superboy in the kitchen (Thankfully!) and Sonny, while laughing, vomits all over himself, my hands and the floor, and Lulu, our vulturous Boston Terrier, fulfills her dogly duties by lapping up the puke as it drips from my fingers and Sonny’s lower lip, still trembling with joy, before we can even take a paper towel to the mess.
5) “Cleaning” should never be defined as allowing your baby to puke all over your home and your dog to lick it clean, leaving that breastmilk and dog spit shine.
6) There’s something that can only be defined as wrong when Sonny has a small round of Spaceboy followed by a quick kiss shower ending with a big lick across his face by Lulu whose mouth and snout are suddenly coated with a thick burst of vomit, which Jaime and I would clean up if we weren’t laughing so absolutely hard we both made our respective noises–mine, a snort; hers, a shallow gasp–that indicate we’ve laughed for so long we’ve overloaded and lost our breath. At first, Lulu loved it until she couldn’t lick the last bit of vomit from her nose, and instead of cleaning it, we just pointed at her and laughed some more, and then I took some pictures (“Sonny, here’s the time you puked all over Lulu’s face and she couldn’t lick it all up and got mad…”) and finally cleaned her face.
7) We’ll be an evolved species when we’re born with Siamese twin puppies who can clean up after us.