You Must Be So Proud

Imagine, if you will, walking up the staircase one day, rounding the corner, stepping into the hallway lit only by the 1970's tinted round bulb cover. The bronzed light bounces off the walls that are that shade of brown that is popular, classy, and really just looks like a decent poo. The light hits those walls, reflects off the honey wood floors, and glimmers against a little bubbly pile of something on the floor, about the size of a dime.

Whatever, wipe it up.

A day later, you walk into the kitchen. Maybe you trip over a stray Cheerio, perhaps your foot sticks in an errant popsicle dripping, but one thing is undeniable; there's another bubbly spot on in the kitchen floor. You check the ceiling for a leak. You look on the bottom of your shoe.

Weird, wipe it up.

Today, you walk from the dining room, around the couch, and into the living room. The sun is high in the sky, and your living room is flooded with golden light reflected off your therapy-yellow walls. You take a step, realize there's something almost but not quite gooey under your foot, and totally ass over foot slip and fall in it. BAM on the floor, you check your foot, and suddenly, as the stars swirl above your head, you figure it all out.

My child, she spits. And not this Spitz:



or even this Spitz



THIS spits.



I am the mother of two boys, and have been for over a decade now. I am no rookie in the world of spitting. My boys have spit on each other in the tub, with the hose water, out their noses at dinner; you know, boy stuff. And a long time ago when I actually gave two shits about pretending to parent them, I meticulously taught them to spit their toothpaste into the sink, to then rinse and spit, and then to swish fluoride rinse and spit that out, too. These kids have been schooled in the fine art of spitting. Not so much with numero tres, mi pequeño ángel accidental.

Apparently, I find blond pigtails, pink dresses, rats-nest hair and shit sandwich breath on a toddler endearing, because god knows she's lucky to see a brush of any form even once in a good week. Hell, she'd rather just suck on the tube of toothpaste anyway. That's fluoride, right?*

My point is that I've never exactly taught her to spit. Her brothers don't really run around spitting at each other anymore. I don't spit. Her father doesn't spit. Though we'll do it when we must**, we're just not spitters without a cause. And yet, she spits anyway.

The baby. The nasty little baby is spitting all over the house.

Can someone tell me, does spitting feel good or something? I've given it a whirl since my little discovery, and meh. It's alright. It's kinda fun when I get a good one going, get it all long and stringy, and then suck it back up right at the final second, but I think that may be a higher skill than someone who can barely wipe her own ass is capable of possessing.

Are you waiting for a point? Yeah, there isn't one. My kid likes to spit all over the damn floor. Don't think I don't know that you're pointing and laughing, either. I'd be willing to bet YOUR kids have some totally disgusting secret habit, too.

*I may be exaggerating slightly there.

**Easy, tiger. It's a family blog.