Standard of Cleanliness in a Personal Anecdote

Projectile vomiting is not a sport.

But if it were, my infant daughter would be among the elite.

Chloe suffers from chronic stomach pain because of a repairable condition she had called gastroschisis. She was born with her intestines outside her body, resulting in her noteworthy ability to propel stomach content at great distances. It is extraordinary to behold.

This is why my wife, Kyoung, and I call Chloe a two-person baby. Feeding her can be a complicated event for us, and a painful affair for her. So, when I’m home, I try to be as helpful as I can when it comes to her feedings. Recently after breastfeeding Chloe, Kyoung handed her to me for burping. It was during this time the following scene unfolded.

After 20 minutes of back-patting, (and without warning,) Chloe’s mouth erupted with jiggling curds of sour milk. She apparently wanted to share her meal. It soiled my arms and legs, as well as the folds of her neck, her chest, her shirt and blanket. Kyoung was almost hit from across the room.

This time the volume of milk was impressive. I estimated she tapped as far back as nine feet into her small intestine. The mess would take a while to clean up, so I quickly wiped her down and gave her back to Kyoung to feed again. I worked on the carpet. Cleaning Chloe herself had to wait until she was full, because a hungry baby is difficult to deal with. I planned to change her shirt and blanket and wipe her down with a warm rag, (she just had a bath).

So, she ate again and Kyoung gave her back to me for re-burping. After a few minutes she produced a dry (thankless) burp and I began the laborious process of changing her shirt and diaper. I say “laborious” because she has a low tolerance for being touched in any way unrelated to affection, (an unfortunate result of five weeks of pokes, prods, surgeries and shots). So, changing her clothes makes her cry, and this time was no exception. But the true lamenting didn't occur until I began wiping her face, neck and chest with a warm, wet cloth. (I had to; she smelled like sour milk and stomach bile.)

Despite her protesting with what I call her propeller arms and piston legs, I finally got a clean shirt back on and wrapped her in a fresh blanket to warm her up. At this point I was not in her favor. No sooner did I get her calmed down did she make a calculated statement about how she felt about me. She looked right at me with a sort of infant defiance, and calmly vomited again, in a controlled and measured manner. It was as if she was saying, "Take this dad. This is for rubbing me with that awful wet rag."

So I had to go through the whole ordeal of changing and cleaning her again. She protested and gasped, and lathered herself up in a furious little mood. That is the thanks I get for maintaining a standard of cleanliness.

She's going to hear all about this when she is older.