“Eew.  Mommy, the baby is spitting up again.”

There’s an ongoing news flash revolving spit up when you have a kindergartener and a baby.  I’m no longer phased.

Let it be known “spit-up” to the five year old can be classified as a mix of generic, white, burpy drool down to clear drops of saliva likely linked to teething.  Thankfully the little brother has only provided an average sampling of the various sorts of baby goo.  Nonetheless from dribble to projectile it is spit-up.  If it derives and exits from, near or around the baby’s mouth it is spit-up.   Junebug has been keen on the daily spit up report since day one.  I likely invited it in when I found a small job like reaching a washcloth (insert: blanket, prefold, half clean shirt and the rare proper burp cloth) was an easy task for “helping hands”.  I can only imagine it is particularly intriguing at this stage.  Dare I blink, there is a built in alarm for when the baby has just spit-up and demands immediate attention.   5 year olds: one should come with every new baby.  

This 5-year gap between my children has been particularly sweet as I hear a running commentary on everything the baby does from Junebug’s perspective.   What’s more is this is the stage I’ve noticed how my son’s thoughts collect and form together.   If I watch his facial expressions carefully, no poker face exists.  When I listen, I hear frank, unfiltered opinions and deeply inquisitive questions.  If I ask him to draw a picture, I never know what influences will show up.

These last few days my family has been cooped up in a hotel and the running commentary has been fully engaged.  I’ve looked forward to breakfast each morning.  The spread at the hotel offers a fresh break from the room, fuels a hope for the day’s normalcy and generally redirects everyone’s attention.

Junebug coloured his placemat.  He looked at his brother’s chin and the corner of his mouth.  All clean.  He smiled.  He eyed my plate. His smile faded. “Eew. Mommy, I can’t believe…” he began then paused.

A dramatic furrowed brow and a look of horror mingled in play across his face as he looked up at me,  “Mommy, did you just eat spit up for breakfast?  With raisins? Yuck, Mommy.  Did you really let him put spit up on your plate? That’s the worst breakfast ever. I would never eat spit up.  That’s just gross.”

The guests at the table next to us chuckled.  I examined the suggested perspective at the next bite of my pale grey, coarsely textured muesli but winked at my firstborn.

Junebug sat mildly horrified half joining in the laughter all the while asking,  “It’s not spit up, is it?  Is it?”

I’m waiting to see what develops in pictures in days to come.

In the meantime, this one is going in the baby book. You may not be at the right stage in life to find the humour in muesli and spit up looking alike nor find it appetizing at breakfast…but at our house we have a new nickname for baby dribble, goo and other pools of baby slobber: It’s muesli and it makes me smile.

Does your oldest child have any interesting takes on what his or her siblings do?  I’d love to hear your stories.