She Did Just Spit Up, Right?

Babies are a lot like magicians. They begin honing their skills in the hospital with those first attempts at breaking free of the swaddle. Once home, they grow and evolve until even the Velcro blankets (specifically designed to thwart the efforts of tiny escapees) can no longer contain them. It's amazing the first time you see that tiny foot shoot through a hole that wasn't there a minute ago.

Another fun newborn trick is projectile vomiting. For any first-time parent, the sight of that milky gush is terrifying. It's so much. But when she fires a line-drive to Uncle Al from across the room and immediately giggles, she's letting you know not to worry. (Still, it's always best to mention it to the pediatrician just to be safe.)

Her heat-seeking missiles and an impressive ability to wriggle free of a burrito hold are just the beginning. As she gets older, the real trick - the one that keeps you scratching your head long into the night - is the disappearing spit up.

I'm not talking about the ever so graceful slurp of the dangling loogie. I'm talking about the ooze that spews from her mouth and miraculously disappears within seconds. Sure, you found some of it; after all, it landed in your hand (great catch, by the way). You may have even spotted a drop of leftover dribble on her chin, but there are at least two ounces missing. Gone. Vanished.

My theory? I'm convinced babies find worm holes in which to dispose of pesky upchuck. Maybe they use those passageways to another dimension to help us out. Perhaps they see us cleaning up after them all day and think, "Hey. I've got this, Mom." Maybe they do it just to be funny - fodder for the sandbox.

Whatever the reason, the fact remains: she spit up in the kitchen and you found a tiny pool in the living room. You wiped her mouth and searched the area, but none of it landed on her. So how did it pool underneath your butt? You weren't even holding her. Are the alternate universe babies rejecting it? Or maybe they're communicating through a sophisticated code of regurgitated carrots. Did it really just disappear into the abyss of the couch? Or is it traveling through time only to meet you at your ninetieth birthday party?

Regardless of how or why it disappears, only your baby knows the secret. All you can do is wipe up the puddles that surface and wear a catcher's mitt to your next few birthday bashes.