In many ways, I believe my daughter was a perfect baby. Looking at my son this morning, as he spits up the chunkiest rotten milk I’ve ever seen, I am only more convinced that Emma was perfect. I’ve had some major readjustment with this second kid. Let me explain. I have no memories of my baby girl spitting up beyond the age of about three months. And even those first three months it was minimal, both in quantity and frequency. By the time she was eating baby food, her cleanliness really started to emerge. She understood the concept of opening her mouth for food immediately, and always cleaned off the spoon with her mouth. Didn’t really try to stick her hands in her food, but when she did I would move her hand away, so that desire disappeared. She would eat with arms outstretched and mouth wide open, practically inhaling the food (she would actually get really impatient in the 2 seconds between bites). Her face stayed clean, and she gladly allowed me to clean her up. If a stray bit of oatmeal made its way to some other part of her body, she would have a mini freak-out, but would still just wave her arms around and sort of grunt-scream until you cleaned it off of her. It was funny, and to some, a little obnoxious, but I enjoyed every minute. I don’t enjoy mess. When she cried she never even shed tears! Seriously. I didn’t see a tear until she was at least two. So there was no snotty, teary mess on her face when she became upset.

Enter III. Very early on in his life he began spitting up. I thought it was no big deal at first; just a baby thing. But it continued. And increased. He was never unhappy about it, and it wasn’t projectile or anything, but it was there. All over him. I had a smelly kid. He is now eight months old, and still spitting up. Only it’s more disgusting now, because it can happen after he’s had chicken and apples and the result is this horrid looking, nasty smelling spit up that is slightly chunky. I’m disgusted. And while I’ve mostly cured him of trying to put his hands in his food, I can’t always stop him in time from putting his hand in his mouth while he’s eating. Ick. And to make matters even better, this kid HATES bibs. It’s not like he just mildly doesn’t care to be wearing one, and it distracts him while he’s eating. Once he realizes it’s on, he will yank and pull and scream until it is taken off. Doesn’t matter how hungry he is. That bib must be gone.

One last comparison. Emma was not sick once until about 12 months, which was a huge blessing. Didn’t even get upset when she was teething. III has already had a few bouts with some sort of cold/allergy-like symptoms, and became very unhappy with the arrival of his first teeth (granted, he got his months earlier in his life than Emma did). We are currently in the midst of some sort of something which has resulted in late nights, a snotty face, and drool everywhere. I am disgusted by my own child. No amount of nurturing a clean habit is going to overcome this kid’s nature. He is not Emma.

So today I’m working on letting go a little. I’m not prepared to let him play in a pile of dirt yet, but I’m trying to remember that blueberries and pears will wash out of his clothes (if washed right away), and eating without a bib is not the end of the world. He hates every time I wipe his face, and it’s not like I’m making that much of a difference anyway. Maybe let him be a little messy. Let him rub his wet, sticky face on my chest as he clings to me, whimpering. After all, despite his appearance, I do love him. Very much. But he will be getting another bath.

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