The joys of throw up

I am pleased to acknowledge that prior to bearing a child, I had never been thrown up on in my life. Sure, there was that one time I woke up in the night when I was 5 and ran in to tell my mother my stomach hurt and as I leaned over her sleeping face to alert her of my plight I exploded with puke, but I never said I never puked on anybody else.

Annalise, on the other hand, has been puked on an extremely large amount of times in her short life. By her own self. I am not talking spit-up. No. The real deal. Also, she manages to get me just about every time (possibly due to the fact that she can never be even momentarily apart from my oh-so-loving arms without melting into a hysteria not worth disengaging her from said oh-so-loving-arms to begin with.)

The Bub is not much of spitter-upper, but every few days she has a huge projectile vomit (quite different than a peaceful little teaspoon-full of spit-up). First (usually) her stomach starts to heave. Then I panickingly flail about, looking for a safe direction in which to aim her, ultimately fail, and get covered in sour milk. It's totally fun.

Today there was no warning heave, and as I stood her on her feet in front of me while I sat on the bed, she very calmly opened her mouth, tilted her chin down, and drenched me. All down my chest, and focusing ultimately on my crotch. As I froze in momentary shock and gooey horror, she opened her mouth once more. And did it again.